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A  GIRL  OF  CHICAGO 


BY 

MARY  MONCURE  PARKER 

Author  of  "A  Fair  Maid  of  Florida,"  "A  Gentleman 
of  Cuba,"  "A  Lucky  Hazard,"  etc. 


F.    TENNYSON    NEELY   CO. 


NEW  YORK 


CHICAGO 


LONDON 


Copyright,  igoi, 

by 

F.  Tennyson  Neelv  Co. 

in 

the 

United  States 

and 
Great  Britain. 

All  Rights  Reserved. 


TO  THE 

TWO   I    LOVE   BEST, 

MY  HUSBAND  AND  LITTLE  SON, 

THIS  BOOK 

IS  AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED 

BY 

THE  AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER    I.                                         PAGE 
Two  Thoroughbreds 1 

CHAPTER    II. 
King  Midas , 5 

CHAPTER    III. 
A  Will  o'  the  Wisp 14 

CHAPTER    IV. 
A  Peep  at  the  F.  F.  C's 21 

CHAPTER  V. 
The  Ahiiighty  Dollar 34 

CHAPTER    VI. 
A  Bird  in  the  Hand 45 

CHAPTER  VII. 
A  Bachelor  Dinner 54 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
Lord  Carnleigh 63 

CHAPTER    IX. 
An  Afternoon   Tea C9 

CHAPTER  X. 
Lord  Carnleigh  Writes  Dora 78 

CHAPTER    XL 
Woman's  Love  1)3 

CHAPTER  XII. 
Lord  Carnleigh  Decides 109 

CHAPTER    XIIL 
Mamma  Alleue  Relents 117 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
A  Gay  Party  of  Four 136 


A  GIRL  OF  CHICAGO. 


CHAPTER  I. 

TWO    THOROUGHBREDS. 

Two  young  men  lounged  at  one  of  the  windows  of  the 
Tomahawk  Club,  one  bright  spring  afternoon  in  the  year 
188 — .  They  were  as  alike  as  two  peas — cigarettes,  cut- 
away coats,  low-cut  vests,  trousers  of  the  most  approved 
type,  just  as  Skinnem,  the  tailor,  had  turned  them  out 
for  the  spring.  They  had  shed  their  overcoats  and  come 
forth  radiant  at  the  first  chirp  of  spring,  much  to  the 
admiration  and  tender  solicitude  of  all  the  fair  damsels 
for  miles  around.  As  alike  as  two  peas  did  I  say  ?  There 
was  one  marked  difference.  Jack  Strainer  was  possessed 
of  a  moustache  which,  to  interest  the  reader,  the  average 
novelist  would  call  dark  and  silken,  but  which  stripped 
of  poesy  was  remarkably  stiff,  wiry  and  devoid  of  curl ; 
while  Gus  Eeacher,  like  Fledgby,  was  constantly  feeling 
for  the  whisker  which  refused  to  take  root  upon  his  pale, 
flabby  face.  The  two  friends  were  termed  swells,  but 
they  were  by  no  means  fools.  They  possessed,  with  all  the 
faults,  some  of  the  virtues  of  their  age  and  city.  Jack  was 
a  bachelor  with  a  snug  little  fortune  of  some  thirty  thou- 
sand dollars,  while  Gus  Eeacher  was  a  widower,  who  had 
been  but  a  year  a  benedict.  He  was  what  was  termed  by 
his  friends,  "a  jolly  good  fellow,"  who  was  head  over 
heels  in  debt,  but  who  lived  remarkably  well  upon  credit. 


2  A  Girl  of  Chican^o. 

"Gad,  I'm  sick  of  this  beastly  town,"  said  Jack  presently 
with  a  yawn. 

"So  am  I.    Where  are  you  going  to  spend  the  summer  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  East,  I  guess.  No  very  enchant- 
ing resort  around  here  anyhow." 

"I  rather  think  I  shall  not  make  up  my  mind  until  I've 
had  an  inkling  as  to  what  resort  the  little  Allene  means 
to  honor  with  her  presence,  then  I  think  I  shall  take 
wings  thither  for  a  month  or  so." 

"Say,  she's  pretty,  isn't  she?  You  know  I  saw  her  for 
the  first  time  the  other  day.  Heard  all  the  fellows  talk- 
ing about  her  though — dark  eyes,  light  hair,  dimples  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing,  eh?  Made  her  debut  last  winter, 
didn't  she  ?" 

Gus  nodded.  "Yes,  pretty  as  a  picture  and  endowed 
with  plenty  of  the  root  of  all  evil,  so  that's  all  that  is 
necessary." 

"Too  bad  I  staid  in  Florida  last  winter,"  answered 
Jack  (his  physician  had  prescribed  a  Southern  winter, 
as  his  lungs  were  troublesome).  "My  chances  might  have 
been  better  with  an  earlier  start.  I3y  the  way,  how  are 
yonng  Porter's  prospects  in  that  direction,  since  his  father's 
failure?  Does  he  still  dance  attendance  upon  her,  or  does 
Allene  ]\Iere  merely  say,  'No,  no,  my  child,  an  honest  man 
may  be  the  noblest  work  of  God,  but  a  rich  one  makes 
by  far  the  most  eligible  match'  ?" 

Gus  winked.  "Eest  assured,  my  dear  fellowman,  that 
dainty  Dora's  mamma  cares  nothing  whatsoever  for  the 
noblest  work  unless  it  be  in  a  gilded  frame.  In  fact,  let 
me  whisper  a  secret  deep  and  dark — Mamma  Allene  has 
designs  upon  our  English  Lord,  to  whom  we've  been 
bowing  allegiance  these  several  weeks  past." 

Jack  gave  a  prolonged  whistle.  "Whew !  'Sits  the 
wind  in  that  quarter?'  Quite  a  downy  nest  for  our  Cousin 
English.  Porter  may  as  well  retire  from  the  conllict.  Too 
bad  the  luck  they've  had,  isn't  it  ?    Porter's  a  nice  fellow." 

"Yes;  so  was  his  father;  sharp,  witty,  a  great  favorite 
everywhere.  The  old  man  was  a  great  joker  too.  I  re- 
member when  Percy  Sharp  came  into  the  Club  one  day 
wearing  a  very  conspicuous  pair  of  trousers,  of  a  very 


Two  Thoroughbreds.  3 

plaid  design,  Porter  stood  looking  at  him  a  moment,  and 
then  said  delightfully,  'My  dear  fellow,  if  my  friend 
Vandyke,  the  artist,  could  only  see  you  at  present,  how 
enraptured  he  would  he/  Sharp  glared  at  him  and  growled, 
'What's  the  matter  with  you?'  'Why,  you  are  such  an 
artistic  study  in  red  and  yellow,'  said  Porter.  And 
Sharp  was  mad,  you  may  be  sure,  at  the  way  the  fellows 
yelled." 

"Ha,  ha !  He  could  say  some  cutting  things  too  when 
he  didn't  like  a  fellow,"  said  Jack,  lighting  a  fresh  cig- 
arette and  thrusting  his  thumbs  through  the  armholes  of 
his  vest.  "You  remember  when  Wellington  Frieze  came 
from  Europe  with  his  'I've  been  abroad  air'  (he  was  only 
gone  a  month  or  so,  you  know)  ;  he  was  continually  saying 
something  about  'When  I  was  in  Paris  or  London,'  or 
'when  I  was  across  the  water.'  In  fact  he  said  so  much 
about  it,  that  everyone  was  tired  out,  and  finally  one  day 
Porter  looked  up  with  a  serious  expression  (he  was  sitting 
over  there  by  the  window,  reading  his  paper,  while  Frieze 
was  boring  a  crowd  of  fellows),  'Young  man,  for  a  person 
who  has  travelled  so  extensively  you  are  rather  reticent — 
won't  vou  favor  us  with  a  little  account  of  your  itinera- 
tions?''" 

Gus  laughed.  "Oh,  he  said  what  he  pleased  and  yet  he 
had  lots  of  friends.  Nevertheless  he  has  been  drawn  under 
the  tide,  and  young  Porter  may  as  well  turn  his  eyes  to- 
wards another  divinity.  Poverty  and  Allene  are  not  syn- 
onymous terms.  By  the  way,  what  do  you  suppose  the 
old  man's  worth?" 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  tell  you.  He's  a  regular  Midas.  Every- 
thing he  touches  turns  to  gold.  Isn't  it  odd  what  success 
he's  had?  Peal  estate,  speculations  of  all  kinds — every- 
thing has  coined  itself  into  money  for  his  especial  benefit. 
I  wish  he  would  kindly  whisper  to  your  humble  servant 
the  secret." 

"So  do  I,  thanks.  They  got  into  their  new  house  last 
winter  somebody  told  me.  It's  a  fine  establishment  they 
say.     Coat  of  arms  cut  in  the  stone  over  the  door." 

"Coat  of  arms !  Oh,  my  Democratic  country !  How 
hast  thou  fallen  !     What  is  it,  pray  ?" 


4  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

"Two  rams'  heads  and  a  shield,  or  something  of  that 
sort.  It  was  the  mater's  doings.  She  changed  the  name 
too.  I've  heard  it  whispered  it  was  in  ye  olden  time,  plain 
Allen." 

"Is  that  so?    She  must  be  a  great  schemer." 

"They  ought  to  have  a  family  tree  too.  I  think  I 
could  trace  back  the  ancestry.  In  fact,  I  don't  think  it 
would  take  long — one  generation  back — what's  the  mat- 
ter?' 

"Quick,  there  she  goes." 

And  the  young  men  jumped  to  their  feet  and  rushed 
to  the  window. 

"By  Jove,  she's  a  beauty." 

"Yes,  and  a  sweet,  good  little  thing,  mother  or  no 
mother.    You  can't  spoil  her." 

"Sh!  There's  Allene's  spider  and  young  Allene — He'll 
be  up  presently,  and  look  !  There's  our  English  Lord  with 
him.    What  did  I  tell  you?" 


King  Midas. 


CHAPTER  11. 

KING  MIDAS. 

E.  Gordon  Allene  pere  was  the  type  of  the  successful 
man  from  the  crown  of  his  shiny  bald  head  to  the  tips 
of  his  well-blacked  boots.  The  bristling  air  of  his  crisp, 
black  beard,  the  swelling  rotundity  of  his  stomach,  all 
seemed  to  indicate  good  care,  prosperity  and  a  very  easy 
conscience.  However,  appearances  are  deceitful  things, 
and  E.  Gordon  Allene  was  not  possessed  of  that  ease  of 
conscience  of  which  his  circumstances  would  appear  con- 
ducive. No  matter  how  callous  a  man  may  grow,  there 
is  always  a  poor  little  stub  of  a  conscience  somewhere  that 
tells  the  truth  to  one's  self,  if  to  no  one  else.  A  man  who 
will  not  reach  out  his  hand  to  save  his  friend,  at  a  crisis 
in  that  friend's  affairs,  when  a  helping  hand  would  lift 
him  out  of  the  terrible  gulf  of  bankruptcy,  has  not  much 
conscience  to  speak  of,  and  yet  after  all  Allene  had  rather 
an  uneasy  feeling  over  the  Porter  failure. 

"And  the  Lord  said  unto  Cain,  Where  is  Abel,  thy 
brother?  And  he  said,  I  know  not.  Am  I  my  brother's 
keeper  ?" 

"And  he  said.  What  hast  thou  done?  the  voice  of  thy 
brother's  blood  crieth  unto  me  from  the  ground.'' 

It  had  happened  in  this  wise.  Porter  and  Allene  had 
been  friends  in  early  days,  when  Allene  was  an  under- 
clerk  for  the  great  firm  of  which  he  was  now  the  head 
and  front,  and  Porter  had  been  a  clerk  in  a  commission 
office  of  the  Board  of  Trade,  where  he  afterwards  became 


6  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

a  heavy  speculator.  Porter  had  loaned  his  friend  two 
hundred  dollars  in  those  days.  It  was  not  a  very  large 
sum,  but  it  was  his  little  all,  and  had  been  paid  for 
doctor's  bills  when  Allene  lay  ill  of  a  long  siege  of  fever, 
and  had  no  money  of  his  own.  Now,  in  his  turn,  when 
Porter  had  come  to  his  friend  with  a  ghastly  face  and  a 
plea  to  be  saved  from  failure,  Allene  had  closed  his  ears 
and  his  pockets  to  the  story  of  his  friend  and  had  shut 
himself  up  in  his  shell,  like  a  clam  at  the  first  approach 
of  danger.  He  was  too  clever  to  have  been  caught  in  such 
folly  as  this.  He  would  never  have  stood  to  his  short 
wheat,  with  the  market  going  steadily  against  him,  had 
he  been  a  speculator.  Corners  in  wheat  had  no  power  to 
move  him.  If  men  chose  to  stand  like  a  set  of  ten  pins, 
a  target  for  the  swift  ball  sent  by  the  expert  hand  of 
any  man  or  set  of  men  who  chose  to  run  a  corner  in  wheat, 
it  certainly  was  not  his  affair,  nor  was  he  called  upon  to 
provide  the  means  for  salving  over  another  man's  folly. 
He  moved  about  his  own  little  universe,  monarch  of  all 
he  surveyed,  as  placid,  as  sleek,  as  apparently  indifferent 
to  any  distresses  that  might  not  concern  himself,  as  one  of 
his  own  bars  of  "Allene's  Best."  Notwithstanding  the 
coat  of  arms  upon  the  new  house,  Allene  had  not  the 
slightest  idea  regarding  his  ancestry.  He  had  knocked 
about  the  great  city,  obliged  to  shift  for  himself  ever 
since  he  could  remember.  Although  he  was  not  born 
with  a  silver  spoon  in  his  mouth,  if  there  be  such  a  thing 
as  luck  pure  and  simple,  it  had  followed  him  nearly  all  of 
his  life.  If  he  matched  pennies  with  the  other  bootblacks, 
he  was  sure  to  win ;  if  ho  swapped  knives,  he  always  came 
out  in  the  end,  with  the  best  knife  of  the  lot,  in  his  posses- 
sion; he  always  found  plenty  of  boots  to  black  and  he 
never  lacked  customers  for  his  paper.  Indeed  so  lucky 
was  he,  that  he  acquired  the  name  among  his  friends  of 
"Lucky  Eddie."  At  the  age  of  eighteen  he  became  an  ex- 
pressman for  the  great  soap  firm  of  Messrs.  Laardo  & 
Sweitzer,  and  later  he  had  become  a  sort  of  under-clcrk 
for  the  same  firm.  It  was  at  this  time  that  he  had  met 
young  Porter,  and  Porter  had  proved  a  friend  in  the 
only  unlucky  stroke  that  had  ever  come  into  Allene's  life. 


KIncr  Midas. 


fc> 


It  was  but  a  step  from  the  undcr-clerkship  to  the  manage- 
ment of  the  firm's  affairs.  Then  the  death  of  one  of  the 
partners  gave  him  an  interest  in  the  business,  and  now  he 
stood  at  the  head  of  the  great  soap  firm  of  "E.  Gordon 
Allene  &  Son."  "Allene's  Best  Soap,"  as  it  was  called, 
had  a  great  run.  No  home  was  complete  without  it,  and 
money  flowed  into  Allene's  coffers  as  water  pours  through 
a  sieve. 

Clever,  shrewd,  successful,  were  the  attributes  of  the 
noun  Allene,  and  yet  as  E.  Gordon  Allene  rolled  home  in 
his  coupe,  he  by  no  means  possessed  that  satisfaction  with 
himself  of  which  his  circumstances  would  seem  conducive. 
His  affairs  were  in  a  flourishing  condition.  There  Was  the 
palatial  new  residence,  here  the  luxurious  coupe  which 
carried  him  back  and  forth  to  his  place  of  business  every 
day  (a  coupe  with  a  coat  of  arms  and  a  monogram  upon 
the  doors,  a  coachman  in  green  and  silver  livery  upon  the 
box  seat),  whose  clanking  chains  told  of  the  millionaire's 
approach.  And  there  were  the  handsome  wife  and  still 
handsomer  daughter — what  more  could  he  desire?  Yet, 
somehow,  the  golden  apple  of  prosperity  seemed  to  leave 
a  bitter  taste  in  the  mouth  of  the  millionaire  to-day.  He 
was  by  no  means  in  a  pleasant  mood,  or  he  would  never 
have  been  guilty  of  taking  that  unbecoming  part  of  which 
he  was  guilty,  some  moments  later.  He  was  lying  back 
among  the  cushions  in  a  lazy  sort  of  way  with  his  hands 
clasped  over  that  portentous  stomach,  which  so  often  in- 
dicates the  prosperous  man,  when  he  suddenly  straightened 
himself  and  gazed  out  of  the  window. 

A  sight  to  make  a  man  gaze  surely,  for  no  prettier 
tailor-made  girl  ever  gladdened  a  father's  eyes !  She  wore 
a  tan  cloth  suit  which  fitted  her  so  exquisitely  that  it  made 
one  wonder  how  she  had  ever  gotten  into  it,  and  still  more 
how  she  was  ever  to  get  out  of  it.  Her  gloves  were  of  red 
undressed  kid,  and  her  red  tulle  hat  set  jauntily  upon  the 
soft  light  hair,  while  the  red  gauze  parasol  thrown  over 
her  shoulder,  made  her  lovely  face  look  like  the  centre 
of  some  huge  flaunting  flower.  She  came  on  down  the 
street,  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes,  chatting  gaily  with  the 
young  man  at  her  side.     Surely  there  was  nothing  about 


8  A  Girl  of  Chicagfo. 


c> 


the  young  man  to  excite  a  father's  ire.  He  was  well, 
though  not  foppishly  dressed,  and  if  not  remarkably  hand- 
some he  was  at  least  good-looking,  and  he  certainly  looked 
the  gentleman;  nevertheless,  when  E.  Gordon  Allene 
called  to  his  coachman  to  stop  and  pull  up  to  the  side- 
walk, his  face  was  purple  with  rage.  He  opened  the 
coupe  door  and  got  out. 

"Medora,"  he  called  sharply. 

The  girl  turned  with  a  little  start.  She  had  been  talk- 
ing so  busily  that  she  had  not  noticed  her  father. 

"Why,  papa !" 

"Get  in  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  coupe. 

The  girl  gazed  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"Why,  papa!''  she  stammered  again. 

"I  won't  hear  a  word,"  he  interrupted  angrily.  "Get 
in  there,  do  you  hear?" 

Dora  knew  that  he  was  very  angry,  oeeause  he  had 
called  her  Medora,  instead  of  "Dora"  or  "Dody."  She 
had  a  very  lucid  idea  as  to  the  cause  of  her  father's  anger, 
and  she  was  spoiled  and  willful  enough  to  have  resisted 
his  authority  under  other  circumstances,  but  there  were 
swarms  of  people  passing  and  repassing  and  she  saw  they 
were  making  themselves  conspicuous,  as  one  or  two  had 
stopped  and  all  were  staring  in  an  unpleasant  way. 

So  Dora  lowered  her  parasol  and  stepped  into  the  coupe 
without  a  word,  none  too  soon,  for  to  her  horror  she  saw 
her  father  shake  his  fist  angrily  in  her  companion's  face. 

"As  for  you,  you  insolent  puppy,  if  you  ever  dare  to 
speak  to  my  daughter  again,  I'll  give  you  a  thrashing  you 
won't  forget;"  and  he  stepped  into  the  coupe  with  a 
"Straight  home,  John,"  sat  down  beside  her  and  slammed 
the  door.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  during  the  entire  ride 
home.  Dora  was  choking  with  tears,  mortification  and 
anger,  but  she  was  too  proud  to  say  anything  to  her 
father,  who  sat  gloomily  silent  looking  straight  before 

him.     On  arriving  at  No.  Prairie  Avenue,  she  went 

directly  to  her  room  and  did  not  appear  again  until  the 
dinner  hour.  Her  eyes  were  suspiciously  red  and  her  face 
wore  a  sullen  expression,  and  yet  as  she  came  down  the 
oaken  stairway  in  her  light,  airy  gown  and  high-heeled 


King  Midas.  9 

slippers,  no  delicate  bisque  figure  was  more  dainty  and 
fair.  She  seemed  hardly  to  belong  to  the  large,  voluptu- 
ous, yet  handsome  woman,  in  a  satin  gown  and  diamonds, 
who  occupied  the  head  of  the  table,  or  to  the  rather  coarse- 
looking  man  who  occupied  the  foot.  Dainty  Dora  looked 
as  out  of  place  sitting  there  between  father  and  mother 
as  did  the  delicate  Dresden  candlestick  upon  the  cabinet, 
between  the  great  Japanese  vases  that  stood  on  either  side 
of  it. 

Mamma  Allene  was  very  wise  and  did  not  pretend  to 
notice  that  her  sullen  little  daughter  ate  very  little,  and 
sat  gazing  moodily  at  the  case  of  stuffed  birds  in  the 
corner.  Nothing  tempted  her  appetite,  but  Mamma  Al- 
lene appeared  to  take  no  heed  of  the  fact. 

"My  dear  Dora,"  she  said  sweetly,  "I  have  such  a  pleas- 
ant surprise  for  you — can  you  guess  what  it  is?" 

"I  don't  know  and  I  don't  care." 

A  very  rude  little  miss,  but  Mamma  Allene  went  on  as 
sweetly  as  before : 

"Well,  we  are  going  to  arrange  to  give  the  most  splendid 
party  of  the  season.  It  will  be  about  the  last  one,  and  I 
want  it  to  be  the  best.  What  do  you  say  to  a  Japanese 
party  ?" 

"I  think  it  would  be  rather  stale,"  sarcastically. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know;  there  were  only  two  last  winter, 
and  Mrs.  Ivanhoe  Browne's  was  a  perfect  failure,  but 
mine  will  be  quite  different.  I'll  have  Japanese  dishes 
and  vases,  lanterns,  curtains — everything  you  can  imagine,^ 
and  then  such  elegant  costumes !" 

"I  think  a  'yellow  party'  would  be  a  great  deal  nicer," 
ventured  Dora,  the  big  brown  eyes  beginning  to  look  in- 
terested in  spite  of  herself.  The  word  "party"  has  a 
magic  sound  to  a  girl  in  her  first  season. 

Mamma  Allene  was  delighted  at  even  a  reluctant  show 
of  interest. 

"Very  well,  my  dear;  a  'yellow  party'  it  shall  be.  We 
shall  order  our  flowers  to-morrow,  and  our  costumes,  too, 
if  you  like." 

Papa  AUene  had  finished  his  dinner.     He  was  in  a 


10  A  Girl  of  Chicagfo 


is 


better  frame  of  mind  and  felt  rather  ashamed  of  himself. 
If  he  had  one  tender  spot  in  his  callous  heart,  it  was  for 
his  pretty  daughter. 

"In  case  you  shouldn't  have  enough  money  to-morrow, 
Dody,"  he  said,  holding  out  a  roll  of  bills  to  her. 

The  little  hand  that  reached  out  for  the  bills  gently 
patted  the  hand  that  held  them.  "You  are  quite  too 
good,  Papa,"  she  said  looking  somewhat  shamefaced,  and 
the  reconciliation  seemed  complete. 

The  footman  announced  callers  for  Miss  Allene,  and  as 
the  dainty  bisque  figure  tripped  away.  Mamma  Allene  said 
complacently,  "You  see,  I  know  just  how  to  manage  girls, 
my  dear." 

Not  so  well  after  all,  for  later  in  the  evening  when  she 
tapped  at  her  daughter's  door,  she  found  rather  a  dis- 
consolate figure  curled  up  upon  a  Turkish  couch,  with  a 
suspiciously  tear-stained  face. 

"You've  been  crying,"  she  said  eyeing  her  daughter 
sharply,  as  she  seated  herself  in  a  willow  rocker. 

"No,  I  haven't,"  rather  petulantly. 

"There's  no  use  trying  to  deceive  me,  Dora  Allenf-.  I 
know  you  have  and  what  about — a  miserable  fellow." 

Dora  raised  up  quickly,  and  the  little  foot  in  the  bronze 
slipper  tapped  the  floor  angrily.  "You  shan't  talk  that 
way.  He  is  as  much  a  gentleman  as  any  man  of  my  ac- 
quaintance. You  used  to  think  so,  until  he  lost  his  money. 
Anyhow,  there  is  no  use  treating  him  as  you  do.  Papa 
mortified  me  almost  to  death  this  afternoon." 

"And  you'll  be  more  mortified  when  you  see  this," 
said  Mamma  Allene,  handing  her  daughter  a  copy  of  an 
evening  paper.    "Those  reporters  get  hold  of  everything." 

No  one  was  ever  more  delighted  with  publicity  than  was 
Mrs.  E.  Gordon  Allene,  if  it  were  only  publicity  of  a 
flattering  kind.  The  sight  of  her  name  in  the  paper,  in 
former  days — she  was  becoming  more  used  to  it  now — 
had  been  wont  to  give  her  a  feeling  little  short  of  ec- 
static. 

"Just  read  that,"  said  Mamma  Allene.  "There  it  is 
in  black  and  white," 


King  Midas.  ii 

'''AN  lEATE  FATHER. 

"aist  enraged  parent  threatens  to  horsewhip  a  dude. 

"A  remarkably  pretty  young  lady  and  her  handsome 
escort  were  the  observed  of  all  observers,  upon  a  certain 
street,  early  this  afternoon.  The  young  lady  is  one  of 
Chicago's  most  admired  belles  (we  mention  no  names), 
and  the  young  man  is  the  son  of  a  gentleman  whose  mis- 
fortune it  was  to  fail  in  business,  at  no  distant  period  in 
the  past.  Presumably  the  fair  damsel  was  indulging  in 
forbidden  fruit,  for  an  enraged  old  gentleman  suddenly 
appeared  upon  the  scene,  who  seized  the  girl  by  the  arm, 
pushed  her  into  a  coupe  which  stood  near  the  sidewalk, 
shook  his  fist  in  the  face  of  the  astonished  dude,  and  dis- 
appeared as  mysteriously  as  he  had  made  his  appearance. 
Young  men  whose  fathers  are  upon  the  bankrupt  list  are 
not  as  a  rule  eligible  matches,  and  our  quondam  friend 
should  bear  this  in  mind  if  he  wishes  to  keep  out  of  range 
of  the  old  gentleman's  horsewhip.  However,  he  has  our 
most  sincere  sympathy,  as  the  young  lady's  glance  was 
certainly  very  magnetic." 

"Oh,  mamma !"  was  all  Dora  could  say. 

"It  is  'Oh,  mamma !'  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Allene  severely, 
smoothing  down  the  ribbons  of  her  neglige,  with  a  large 
white,  heavily  ringed  hand.  "Just  suppose  they  had  used 
your  name,  but  they  didn't  quite  dare  to  do  it.  Your 
father  was  awful  angry  when  he  saw  this.  He  said  he  was 
going  right  down  to  the  newspaper  office  and  demand  sat- 
isfaction, but  I  talked  him  out  of  it.  I  told  him  very 
few  people  would  know  who  were  meant  by  it  anywa}'-,  and 
if  we'd  let  it  alone  it  would  soon  die  out.  I  had  hard 
work,  but  I  persuaded  him  at  last  to  let  it  alone.  So  you 
can  see  how  much  trouble  that  miserable  fellow  has 
made." 

Dora  sat  up  straight,  her  eyes  shining  brightly.  "ISTow, 
Mamma,  there  is  no  use  in  being  so  unjust.  It  wasn't 
his  fault.  I  not  only  spoke  to  him,  but  I" — with  a  slight 
hesitation — "I  asked  him  if  he  did  not  want  to  walk  over 


1^  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

to  Bellew's  with  me  and  see  my  new  picture.  He  said  he 
was  sorry  but  he  hadn't  time,  as  he  must  get  back  to  the 
office,  and  he  was  just  going  to  leave  me,  when  papa 
drove  up.  Why  couldn't  papa  have  gone  to  the  Club  as 
he  intended,  and  let  me  alone !  He  could  have  spoken  to 
me  about  it  afterwards,  and  not  made  such  a  scene.  I'm 
too  old  to  be  treated  that  way,  and  I  won't  stand  it;" 
and  Dora  looked  up  defiantly. 

Mamma  Allene  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "If  you  act 
like  a  child,  you  must  expect  to  be  treated  like  one.  If 
you  choose  to  walk  and  talk  with  a  person  your  father 
disapproves  of,  you  must  take  the  consequences.  You 
know  your  father's  quick  temper.  You  knew  that  he 
had  forbidden  you  to  recognize  that  man,  and  you  knew 
very  well  I  had  crossed  the  Porters'  name  off  my  calling 
list." 

"For  which  I  don't  presume  they  care  a  fig,"  retorted 
Dora,  "as  they  have  all  gone  West  except  Will." 

"I  am  glad  you  keep  so  well  informed  as  to  their  move- 
ments, and  I  am  sorry  to  see  that  you  don't  know  it's  im- 
proper to  call  a  gentleman  by  his  first  name." 

Dora  threw  up  both  hands.  "A  gentleman!  Mamma, 
you've  made  a  mistake  in  the  word.  Why,  he  hasn't  a 
bit  of  money." 

Mrs.  Allene  looked  angry.  "Sometimes  you  don't  seem 
to  have  a  mite  of  sense,  Dora.  I  did  blame  your  father 
at  first,  but  I  don't  now.  If  he'd  let  you  alone,  you're 
just  stubborn  enough  to  go  and  elope,  and  be  the  talk  of 
the  town." 

Dora  laughed  sarcastically.  "Oh,  no,  mamma.  If  I 
wanted  to  make  a  sensation,  I'd  elope  with  the  coachman; 
that's  the  fashion  nowadays.  Or  I  might  take  the  butler; 
that  would  be  something  quite  novel  and  would  be  a  nine- 
days'  wonder.  He  would  not  be  bad  looking,  by  the  way, 
if  he  only  had  a  straight  nose." 

Mamma  Allene  reached  for  a  gauze  fan  that  lay  upon 
the  table.  She  was  growing  uncomfortably  warm.  "I 
don't  know  how  I  ever  came  to  have  such  a  daughter. 
Now,  there's  Fanny  Shaw."  (Oh,  useful  Fanny  Shaw! 
jEow  many  purposes  had  she  served !    Times  out  of  num- 


King  Midas.  13 

ber  had  Mamma  Allene  found  fault  with  her,  but  it  was 
to  her  interest  to  praise  her  now.)  "She  was  only  out  one 
season  and  then  she  married  Philo  Benares,  who  was  then 
the  biggest  catch  in  town." 

"And  the  worst  reprobate,"  put  in  Dora. 

"Do  have  a  grain  of  sense,  Dora.  I  am  a  little  older 
than  you  are,  and  I've  lived  just  a  few  days  longer,  I 
think.  I  know  that  a  woman  who  has  been  used  to  any 
kind  of  living,  can  no  more  live  without  money  than  she 
can  live  at  all  without  breathing.  It's  all  very  pretty 
talk  about  marrying  for  love  and  all  that  nonsense,  but 
I've  put  too  much  dependence  in  you.  I've  lived  too 
much  for  you.  I've  expected  you  to  do  something  great. 
Something  way  beyond  what  any  other  girl  in  your  set 
can  do,  and  now  to  have  all  my  hopes  destroyed" — and 
quite  out  of  breath  and  quite  overcome  with  emotion. 
Mamma  Allene  began  to  weep. 

Dora  yawned  a  little  and  tried  to  look  indifferent.  Then 
she  rose  to  her  full  height  (she  was  not  very  tall,  by  the 
way).  "Don't  you  think  you  are  worrying  yourself  quite 
unnecessarily,  my  dear  mother?"  she  said  lightly.  "In 
the  first  place,  Mr.  Porter  has  never  asked  me  to  marry 
him,  and  so  I  think  it  would  be  just  as  wise  not  to  reject 
his  proposal  until  I  receive  it.  In  the  second  place,  I 
am  quite  too  fond  of  luxury  and  ease,  quite  too  much  my 
mother's  daughter  to  marry  a  poor  man,  unless  he  should 
happen  to  be  an  earl  or  a  king.  How  would  a  king  do, 
mamma  ?" 

Mrs.  Allene  was  mollified  and  quickly  dried  her  tears. 
"Don't  be  silly,  Dora,"  she  said,  this  time  smiling  blandly. 
"That  was  said  like  my  dear,  sensible  daughter,  and  we'll 
never  mention  the  subject  again.  Now,  my  dear,"  rising 
and  kissing  her  daughter  on  either  cheek,  "you'd  better 
go  to  bed,  as  it's  growing  quite  late." 


14  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  WILL  O'  THE  WISP. 

--'  The  best  thing  that  ever  happened  to  young  Porter  was 
his  father's  failure.  It  made  a  man  of  him.  Of  course, 
the  fact  did  not  present  itself  to  young  Porter  in  that 
light.  He  felt  himself  a  much  abused  individual.  The 
society  life  and  club  life  in  which  his  father's  money  had 
enabled  him  to  mingle,  was  much  more  to  his  taste  than 
was  the  set  of  books  over  which  he  was  compelled  to  bend 
from  early  morning  until  late  at  night,  or  the  odorifer- 
ous boarding  house  which  inflicted  its  boarders  with  baked 
beans  every  Saturday  night,  fish-balls  Sunday  morning, 
and  indifferent  beefsteak  the  rest  of  the  week.  He  ac- 
cepted his  fate,  but  not  without  a  good  deal  of  grumbling. 
The  world  had  turned  upside  down  for  him.  The  elegant 
homestead  had  passed  into  other  hands,  and  his  father,  dis- 
couraged and  out  of  heart,  grown  ten  years  older  in  the  past 
few  months,  had  taken  his  family  West,  leaving  his  son 
to  make  his  own  way  to  fortune,  as  best  he  could.  He  was 
not  progressing  very  rapidly,  for  the  fortune  was  seem- 
ingly very  far  in  the  distance.  The  salary  attached  to  the 
position  offered  him  by  Dilsingham  &  Co.  was  a  meagre 
one.  At  least  it  seemed  so  to  a  young  man  who  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  going  to  Pillson's  or  Briar's  and  ordering 
everything  he  desired,  regardless  of  expense.  His  salary 
had  been  raised  since  his  arrival  at  R.  H.  Dilsingham  & 
Co.'s,  for  young  Will  had  something  of  the  quickness  of 
srit  and  fearlessness  of  speech  which  had  always  rather  in- 


A  Will  o'  the  Wisp.  15 

terested  old  Mr.  Dilsingham  in  the  elder  Porter.  The  old 
man  belonged  to  the  old  school.  He  had  no  patience  with 
a  youth  who  could  not  confine  himself  to  his  income.  In 
his  younger  days  he  was  wont  to  say  proudly,  that  if  he 
had  but  five  dollars  per  month,  his  expenses  never  exceeded 
four.  There  was  always  a  dollar  to  put  away  for  a  rainy 
day.  He  regarded  Will,  who  was  overdrawn  most  of  the 
time,  and  who  considered  that  he  was  doing  remarkably 
well,  even  at  that,  with  a  rather  stern  countenance  when 
they  were  wont  to  meet. 

"Young  man,"  he  said  sharply  one  day,  "what  do  you 
do  with  your  money  ?" 

"I  spend  it,"  said  Will  promptly. 

"I  suppose  if  you  had  just  double  the  amount  you  draw, 
you  would  spend  that  too,  eh?  Now,  just  tell  me,  young 
fellow,  what  you  would  do  if  I  should  raise  your  salary 
next  month?" 

Will  looked  up  with  an  odd  expression  on  his  face. 

"I  think  I  should  have  a  paralytic  stroke,  sir." 

Mr.  Dilsingham's  eyes  twinkled,  but  he  said  nothing 
more.  At  the  end  of  the  month,  however,  young  Will 
had  a  raise  of  ten  dollars.  It  was  by  no  means  a  princely 
salary  now,  and  Will  grumbled  inwardly  over  his  fate. 
We  are  angels  neither  by  birth  nor  inheritance,  and  it  is 
not  in  the  heart  of  man  to  be  patient  under  a  downfall 
so  precipitate.  Nevertheless  Will  worked  steadily  and 
conscientiously.  Youth  is  sanguine.  There  was  a  faint 
hope  in  his  breast  of  one  day  being  able  to  regain  his  old 
social  position.  Not  that  he  cared  for  himself  or  for  the 
notice  of  the  empty-headed  fools  who  had  fawned  upon  him 
when  his  money  was  as  free  as  water  and  who  gave  him 
the  cold  shoulder  now,  but  he  wanted  money  for  Dora 
Allene's  sake.  He  longed  to  take  his  old  place  with  her. 
They  had  not  been  engaged — oh,  no,  but  then  she  had  al- 
ways seemed  to  sort  of  depend  upon  him.  He  had  always 
been  the  one  to  carry  her  fan  or  opera  glasses,  or  throw  her 
wrap  about  her  shoulders.  She  had  taken  him  into  all 
her  little  confidences  and  secrets;  in  fact,  had  sweetly 
told  him,  "Tie  was  just  like  a  brother,"  although  how  she 
knew  what  a  brother  was  like  with  nothing  but  her  own 


1 6  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

dissolute  brother  to  judge  from,  is  more  than  I  can  im- 
agine. A  young  man  who  is  but  a  friend  is  a  dangerous 
sort  of  brother  to  have,  as  he  is  more  than  likely  to  fall 
in  love  with  his  confidential  little  sister,  and  then  there's 
a  "howdy  do,"  for  the  little  sister  is  almost  always  sure 
to  be  in  love  with  somebody  else. 

This  brother^  like  all  the  rest,  was  head  over  heels  in  love 
with  his  "sister,"  although  he  called  himself  an  ass  and  a 
mean-spirited  fellow  for  so  being.  Had  not  her  father 
openly  insulted  him  in  the  street  ?  His  cheek  burned  and 
his  hands  clenched  when  he  thought  of  it,  and  yet  his 
thoughts  always  came  back  to  the  little  pink  note  in  his 
vest  pocket.  How  many  times  had  he  read  and  reread  it ! 
It  was  a  dainty  perfumed  thing,  sealed  with  red  wax  and 
stamped  with  the  Allene  coat  of  arms.  He  would  have 
been  inclined  to  smile  at  the  coat  of  arms — most  people 
were — had  it  not  been  upon  the  letter  of  his  divinity. 

"I  am  so  sorry  to  have  been  the  cause  of  that  disgrace- 
ful scene  upon  the  street  on  yesterday,"  it  said,  "and  I 

hope  you  will  try  to  forgive  and  forget "      After  all, 

she  was  a  sweet,  simple-hearted  girl  whom  money  couldn't 
spoil.  She  had  bowed  to  him  at  the  theatre  the  other 
night,  too,  with  her  mother  sitting  in  the  same  box  with 
her,  so  she  evidently  was  determined  to  continue  speaking 
to  him.  How  pretty  she  had  looked!  A  little  bundle 
of  silk  and  lace  and  diamonds,  but  with  her  lovely  face 
shining  out  the  crowning  bea^^ty  above  it  all.  There  were 
a  lot  of  fellows  hanging  about  her,  Jack  Strainer,  Gus 
Eeacher,  Percy  Sharp,  a  lot  of  know-nothings  (Will  had 
liked  them  all  well  enough  once  upon  a  time),  bothering 
her  with  a  lot  of  stuff  and  nonsense  she  didn't  care  a  fig 
about  (Will  had  talked  the  same  nonsense  once,  himself), 
and  she — what  a  little  flirt  she  was — coquetting  over  the 
top  of  her  pink  feather  fan.  The  house  was  in  an  uproar 
over  the  absurd  situations  in  "A  Night  Off,"  but  Will 
Porter  was  as  gloomy  as  thon^^h  the  play  had  i)een  "Ham- 
let" instead. 

All  at  once  the  atmosphere  changed  and  when  the  cur- 
tain went  up  young  Porter  (although  he  never  would 
have  acknowledged  it)  was  in  the  seventh  heaven.    Lewis 


A  Will  o'  the  Wisp.  17 

was  very  amusing,  Miss  Eehan  very  pretty,  Mrs.  Gilbert 
just  capital ;  in  fact,  everything  was  as  it  should  be  and  all 
because  of  what? 

Why,  the  flimsy  little  flirt  in  the  box  had  been  scanning 
the  house  through  her  dainty  opera  glasses  and  all  at 
once  catching  sight  ©f  him  down  among  the  people,  she 
had  lowered  her  glasses,  let  her  face  dimple  into  a  smile 
showing  her  even  white  teeth  to  perfection  and  had  given 
him  the  most  fetching  little  bow  imaginable.  It  was  a 
mere  piece  of  coquetry  on  her  part,  probably,  but  he,  poor 
fool,  did  not  know  that,  and  was  lifted  into  a  most  ec- 
static state  of  feeling  in  consequence.  I  sometimes  think 
these  rich  fellows,  the  petted  darlings  of  society,  who  get 
a  surfeit  of  smiles  and  bows  wherever  they  go,  cannot 
appreciate  them  as  a  man  to  whom  society  is  a  luxury. 
But  then  such  smiles  and  bows  are  hollow  mockeries  after 
all  and  mean  but  little !  Nevertheless,  that  bright  smile 
was  regarded  by  young  Porter,  as  anything  but  a  hollow 
mockery.  It  danced  before  the  pages  of  his  ledger,  and 
illumined  the  figures  upon  his  journal,  so  distracting  his 
attention  from  his  work  that  it  was  likely  to  prove  any- 
thing but  a  mascot. 

So  many  times  did  he  thrust  his  pen  behind  his  ear 
and  lean  his  chin  upon  his  hand  in  the  course  of  the  morn- 
ing that  another  clerk  who  spent  his  time  alternately  be- 
tween working  upon  the  books  and  depositing  tobacco  juice 
in  the  spittoon,  sang  out  more  than  once,  "Time,  there. 
Porter."  He  even  had  to  be  reminded  that  it  was  lunch 
time,  and  then  started  off  abstractedly  without  changing 
his  coat. 

Young  Will  had  never  been  able  to  make  up  his  mind 
to  lunch  at  any  lesser  restaurant  than  the  Grand  Union 
Cafe,  where  the  swells  were  wont  to  meet.  He  had  plenty 
of  good  friends  still,  who  were  not  affected  with  short- 
sightedness when  they  met  him,  in  consequence  of  his  mis- 
fortunes, and  he  did  not  escape  to  a  small  table  in  the 
corner  without  several  invitations  to  sit  down  at  the  differ- 
ent tables.  He  preferred  to  sit  alone  to-day,  however, 
and  after  ordering  a  dry  stew,  and  a  salad,  sat  looking 
idly  about  him,  watching  the  stream  of  men  file  in  and 


1 8  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

out.  The  table  next  him  was  occupied  by  several  "old 
heads/"'  who  were  discussing  the  price  of  wheat  and  con- 
jecturing as  to  what  prices  another  day  would  bring  forth. 
At  another  table  sat  a  company  of  young  men,  who  were 
eating  meat  pie  and  washing  it  down  with  ale,  with  an 
Anglomania  quite  amusing.  Presently  the  head  waiter 
came  in  with  a  flourish,  and  drawing  the  chairs  from  the 
table  next  to  Will,  deposited  therein  five  gentlemen,  a 
party  of  young  club  men,  whose  appearance  created  quite 
a  stir,  principally  because  one  of  their  number  was  an 
English  nobleman,  who  had  but  lately  arrived,  and  to 
whom  they  were  showing  the  town.  Everybody  stared  at 
the  party,  for  American  people,  however  republican  in 
their  ideas,  will  stare  after  a  "title."  There  was  young 
Allene,  who  made  Will's  blood  boil  by  regarding  him 
with  a  stony  stare,  whenever  he  happened  to  catch  his 
eye.  There  was  Wellington  Frieze,  whose  European  trip, 
he  felt,  quite  entitled  him  to  a  close  intimacy  with  an 
English  Lord.  There  was  Tony  Foyer,  who  was  a  regu- 
lar "first  nighter"  at  all  the  spectacular  entertainments 
that  came  to  town  and  whose  propensity  for  falling  in 
love  with  pretty  girls,  especially  pretty  girls  on  the  stage, 
was  a  current  joke  among  his  friends.  There  was  Bartley 
Brincoe,  a  bachelor  and  millionaire,  who  owned  a  tally- 
ho  coach  and  together  with  young  Allene,  was  considered 
a  great  catch.  They  had  in  tow  to-day  a  British  noble- 
man. Lord  Carnleigh,  a  tall,  big-limbed,  rather  fine-looking 
fellow,  whose  face,  however,  looked  bloated  and  showed 
marks  of  dissipation,  and  whose  manner  was  a  trifle  super- 
cilious, as  he  surveyed  the  cafe  through  his  eyeglass, 

"By  Gad  V  he  said  suddenly,  "a  man  might  well  relish 
his  dinner  with  such  a  pretty  picture  before  him,"  glanc- 
ing up  steadily  at  a  window  across  the  street,  where  a  fair- 
haired  girl  sat  gracefully  fingering  her  typewriter. 

"Oh,  that's  the  little  Trenton,"  said  Bartley  Brincoe, 
as  they  all  turned  to  gaze  at  the  window.  "Isn't  she  a 
daisy?"- 

"Cold  as  an  iceberg,  though,"  said  Tony  Foyer. 

"Tony  must  have  been  snubbed,  some  time,"  put  in 
young  Allene,  with  a  lazy  laugh. 


A  Will  o'  the  Wisp.  xg 

"I'm  not  the  first  one,"  answered  Tony  with  warmth 
(he  rather  prided  himself  upon  his  insinuating  manners). 
"She's  so  with  everybody." 

"I'm  rather  suspicious  of  these  glacial  dispositions  my- 
self," sneered  Bartley  Brincoe.     "They're  always  deep." 

"Too  deucedly  pretty  to  be  very  glacial,"  drawled  Lord 
Carnleigh,  with  another  prolonged  stare  at  the  office  win- 
dow. 

Happily  for  Will's  peace  of  mind  the  arrival  of  the 
waiter  with  a  loaded  tray  turned  the  thoughts  of  the  young 
swells  into  another  channel.  He  was  growing  uncomfort- 
ably warm  at  this  bandying  about  of  a  girl's  good  name, 
although  why  he  should  have  troubled  himself  at  all  is 
a  mystery,  as  half  the  young  ladies  in  the  exclusive  upper 
ten  were  delighted  at  the  notice  of  any  one  of  this  dashing 
quintette.  A  girl  outside  that  exclusive  set  should  have 
been  glad  to  be  noticed  at  all,  even  though  the  notice  were 
in  such  a  manner.  But  young  Will  had  a  good  mother, 
and  two  sisters  who  were  trying  to  make  a  living  in  a  far 
Western  city,  and  he  considered  such  remarks  an  insult 
to  womanhood.  However,  as  young  men  are  not  apt  to 
pick  quarrels  without  direct  provocation  in  crowded  res- 
taurants (except  in  romantic  story  books),  he  clicked  down 
his  righteous  indignation  and  started  for  the  Club  with  a 
rnessage  for  his  employer. 

Mr.  Dilsingham  was  a  great  club  man,  dined  and  lived 
at  his  club,  and  was  always  to  be  found  there  out  of  busi- 
ness hours.  He  was  a  bachelor  and  the  Club  was  to  him 
what  home  is  to  the  married  man — his  wife,  his  child,  his 
all. 

As  young  Will  came  down  the  Club  steps,  a  victoria 
stood  near  the  sidewalk,  his  heart  beat  quickly,  as  he  saw 
its  fair  occupant  in  a  charming  carriage  toilet,  with  a  white 
crepe  parasol  shading  her  smiling  face,  and  how  smiling 
she  was !  Young  Will  began  to  grow  cynical  regarding 
the  smile  he  had  treasured  all  the  week,  when  he  saw  her 
lavishing  so  many  upon  the  fortunate  quintette  who  had 
lunched  at  the  table  next  to  his.  So  absorbed  was  she 
that  she  did  not  bow  to  Will,  did  not  even  see  him,  at 
least  so  he  vainly  tried  to  make  himself  believe,  despising 


20  A  Girl  of  Chlcaofo. 


fc. 


himself  all  the  time  for  so  doing.  She  stood  the  fire  of 
admiring  looks  or  curious  stares  of  passers  by  remark- 
ably well,  for  she  was  a  little  queen  by  virtue  of  her  wealth, 
youth  and  beauty,  and  was  accustomed  to  silent  as  well 
as  spoken  homage.  When  Will  turned  to  give  one  last 
look  at  his  divinity  (a  fickle  divinity,  I  fear,  with  nothing 
divine,  and  much  that  was  very  human  about  her),  his 
heart  sank  as  he  saw  that  Lord  Carnleigh  had  taken  the 
seat  beside  her,  and  she  was  nodding  a  smiling  good-bye 
to  his  companions,  as  the  victoria  rolled  away. 


A  Peep  at  the  F.  F.  C's.  21 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  PEEP  AT  THE  F.  F.  C'S. 

The  architecture  of  the  house  at  ISTo. Prairie  Ave- 
nue was  something  strange  and  wonderful  to  behold.  The 
designer  must  have  been  upon  the  very  verge  of  insanity 
when  the  plan  formulated  itself  in  his  mind.  There  were 
odd  angles,  strange  corners,  queer  windows,  lofty  turrets 
and  minarets,  all  tumbled  together  into  such  an  eccentric 
monument  of  stone  work  that  it  made  the  eye  of  the 
beholder  fairly  ache.  There  was  a  portentous  porte- 
cochere  and  a  massive  front  doorway  made  to  look  like 
two  heavily  barred  swinging  iron  gates.  Mrs.  E.  Gordon 
Allene,  it  was  said,  although  that  of  course  may  have 
been  mere  talk,  had  been  strongly  in  favor  of  a  moat  and 
a  drawbridge,  but  the  designer  had  finally  persuaded  her 
to  abandon  the  idea. 

Over  the  doorway  was  the  much  talked  of  coat  of  arms 
— two  crossed  swords,  and  a  ram's  head  upon  a  shield  with 
the  inscription  "Vi  et  armis,"  all  of  which  had  been  the 
product  of  Mrs.  Allene's  brain  after  a  lengthened  study  of 
an  old  book  upon  armorial  bearings.  There  was  no  par- 
ticular meaning  to  the  thing;  it  was  a  sort  of  composite 
coat  of  arms,  a  blending  of  some  dozen  or  more  armorial 
bearings  which  Mrs.  Allene  had  found  pictured  upon  the 
pages  of  her  book — but  it  looked  well  upon  the  house,  it 
added  dignity  to  her  coach  in  the  eyes  of  the  unsophisti- 
cated, it  loomed  up  with  magnificence  from  the  white  page 
of  her  writing  paper,  so  its  meaning  was  of  little  conse- 
quence. 


22  A  Girl  of  Chlcasro. 


c> 


So  surely  as  Mrs.  Allene  desired  a  thing,  so  surely  would 
that  thing  be  obtained  if  money  could  procure  it.  Some- 
how or  other,  she  had  a  wonderful  way  of  carrying  out  her 
designs.  When  E.  Gordon  Allene  had  married  her  she 
was  a  milliner's  apprentice.  That  was  years  ago;  the 
thing  was  never  hinted  at  now.  She  had  been  a  remark- 
ably pretty  young  woman,  tall  and  fair  and  graceful,  and 
from  being  called  so  often  to  try  on  bonnets,  because  any- 
thing looked  well  upon  her  shapely  head,  she  was  at  last 
kept  for  that  purpose 'altogether.  Messrs.  Tinsel  &  Folle 
found  that  trade  in  hats  and  bonnets  was  henceforth  ex- 
ceedingly brisk,  for  no  matter  how  homely  a  woman  may 
be,  there  is  no  making  her  believe  that  she  will  not  look 
as  well  in  a  bonnet  as  will  any  other  woman,  let  that  woman 
be  ever  so  pretty. 

Profiting  by  their  fair  employee's  beauty,  the  schem- 
ing milliners,  who  were  ladies'  tailors  as  well,  conceived 
a  brilliant  idea.  Every  Saturday  afternoon,  when  all 
the  belles  and  beaux  were  out  for  an  airing,  Mrs.  Allene,  or 
rather  Miss  Anna  Gordon,  for  such  was  her  maiden  name, 
sailed  down  State  Street  attired  in  the  latest  style  of  bon- 
net, gown  and  wrap  of  which  the  house  of  Messrs.  Tinsel, 
Folle  &  Co.  could  boast.  Of  course  the  eyes  of  all  the 
women  followed  the  bonnet  and  wrap,  and  the  eyes  of  all 
the  men  followed  the  fair  face  and  form  of  the  wearer, 
so  a  double  purpose  was  served.  Inquiries  as  to  who  and 
what  she  was  of  course  followed  the  appearance  at  such 
regular  intervals  of  so  superb  and  so  fashionably  attired 
a  creature,  and  when  her  whereabouts  were  discovered, 
Messrs.  Tinsel  &  Folle  had  a  perfect  rush  of  custom. 
Young  men  came  to  buy  hats  for  their  sisters,  and  mothers, 
and  even  caps  for  their  grandmothers.  Old  men  came  to 
buy  bonnets  for  their  wives  and  daughters.  Never  were 
female  relations  so  generously  treated  before.  Twenty- 
iive,  thirty,  even  fifty  dollars  was  paid  without  a  murmur 
for  a  tiny  bit  of  gauze  and  feathers,  that  looked  like  a 
mess  of  trash,  save  that  it  rested  on  Miss  Gordon's  grace- 
ful head.  For,  had  Miss  Gordon's  wonderful  blue  eyes 
looked  out  at  him  from  under  a  coal  scuttle,  a  man  would 
have  no  alternative  but  to  pronounce  it  the  most  beautiful 


A  Peep  at  the  F.  F.  C's.  23 

head  gear  upon  which  his  eyes  had  ever  rested.  So  Miss 
Gordon  was  trotted  out  upon  each  and  every  occasion  and 
when  she  began  to  realize  her  importance  she  demanded 
an  extortionate  salary,  which  was  paid  without  a  mur- 
mur. Being  rather  extravagant  in  her  tastes,  however, 
Miss  Gordon  had  only  a  small  sum  at  the  time  of  her 
marriage,  and  this  she  expended  in  her  wedding  clothes. 
She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  marry  and  to  marry  well, 
and  when  she  met  Mr.  Edward  Allen,  she  decided  that  he 
was  the  man  to  marry,  and  so  she  married  him.  He  was 
then  a  man  about  thirty-two  years  of  age,  worth  about 
fifteen  thousand  dollars,  had  a  small  interest  in  the  firm 
of  Laarde  &  Sweitzer,  was  the  owner  of  a  house  upon  a 
quiet  street  and  kept  a  horse  and  buggy.  Miss  Anna 
Gordon  turned  all  these  points  over  in  her  mind,  weighed 
them  carefully  and  made  up  her  mind  that  he  would  be  a 
rich  man  some  day.  At  least  she  saw  no  better  prospects 
and  thinking  it  best  to  seize  the  passing  opportunity  lest 
none  better  should  present  itself,  she  accepted  his  offer 
and  became  his  wife. 

At  her  request  the  name  was  changed  from  plain  Allen 
to  Allene,  much  against  her  husband's  will.  He  had  been 
tempted  to  call  it  "rank  nonsense,"  but  it  is  a  hardened 
sort  of  husband  who  will  refuse  the  request  of  a  newly 
made  wife,  and  this  wife  was  so  pretty  and  engaging,  and 
he  was  so  very  much  in  love  with  her.  It  was  a  new  and 
delightful  experience  to  this  man,  who  had  scarcely  known 
the  meaning  of  affection  in  all  his  narrow,  hard-working, 
money-getting  life,  to  have  a  charming  creature  looking 
up  into  his  eyes,  and  holding  his  hands  with  two  hands 
so  soft  and  white  that  he  almost  feared  to  touch  them. 

"You  know,  dear,"  she  had  said  sweetly,  "Allen  is  a 
very  good  name,  but  isn't  it  just  a  trifle  common,  I  mean 
commonplace?  You  see  I  don't  want  to  change  it  much, 
only  to  spell  it  in  a  different  way,  that's  all."  And  so 
the  poor  foolish  man  agreed,  and  she  wrote  her  name  Mrs. 
E.  Gordon  Allene,  because  Gordon  was  her  maiden  name, 
and  had  a  lofty  sound,  and  by  and  by  he  took  to  writing 
his  in  that  way  too. 

As  business  prospered  and  the  Allenes  grew  more  pom- 


24  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

pous,  the  house  upon  the  quiet  street  was  exchanged  for 
one  more  pretentious  upon  a  stately  avenue,  while  the 
modest  horse  and  buggy  expanded  into  a  surry  and  a  spank- 
ing pair  of  bays.  With  the  new  house  and  new  surround- 
ings, came  new  acquaintances,  and  as  Mrs.  E.  Gordon  Al- 
lene  rolled  along  in  her  surry  with  her  pretty  golden- 
haired  little  daughter  beside  her,  her  handsome  boy  on  a 
Shetland  pony  behind  and  a  colored  driver  on  the  seat 
in  front,  not  one  soul  was  recognized  of  those  who  had 
received  her  cordial  bow  from  the  modest  buggy.  The 
people  of  the  quiet  street  passed  utterly  into  oblivion,  for 
Mrs.  E.  Gordon  Allene  was  ascending  the  ladder  of  pros- 
perity and  could  not  look  out  for  those  upon  the  rungs 
below.  It  was  to  her  interest  to  reach  up  to  the  rungs 
above.  Until  she  obtained  such  a  social  position  herself 
as  would  enable  her  to  become  a  recognized  leader,  she 
must  look  to  those  who  could  give  her  social  prominence. 
Later  there  was  another  move,  of  still  greater  import.  The 
coachman  donned  livery,  the  little  girl  was  sent  to  a  fash- 
ionable school,  attended  everywhere  by  a  nurse  in  white 
cap  and  apron,  although  she  was  really  a  little  girl  no 
longer,  and  could  have  done  remarkably  well  without  an 
attendant  of  this  sort,  only  it  looked  well  to  have  a  "bonne" 
for  a  great  girl  of  twelve. 

The  boy  was  sent  to  college  because  that  sounded  very 
well  also;  in  fact,  there  began  to  be  every  outward  indi- 
cation that  the  Allenes  wore  rapidly  rising  in  the  world. 
They  made  new  acquaintances  to  accord  with  their  new 
circumstances,  and  the  "quiet  street"  became  clearly  a 
thing  of  the  past.  Then  had  come  this  last  move.  The 
home  on  Prairie  Avenue  was  quite  as  palatial  as  any  of  its 
stately  neighbors.  Society  had  at  last  opened  its  arms  to 
[receive  her  to  its  most  exclusive  bosom — the  pretty  daughter 
had  made  her  debut  and  was  the  most  charming  debu- 
tante of  the  season — in  fact,  Mrs.  E.  Gordon  Allene  had 
very  nearly  reached  the  acme  of  her  hopes  and  ambitions. 
It  was  a  residence  fit  for  a  queen,  only  I  trust  a  queen 
iwould  have  shown  more  taste  and  less  pomposity  in  the 
arranging  of  her  worldly  goods.  If  the  exterior  of  the  Al- 
lene mansion  presented  a  remarkable  appearance,  the  in* 


A  Peep  at  the  F.  F.  C's.  25 

terior  was  no  less  eccentric  in  its  arrangement.  There 
were  doorways  and  stairways,  odd  niches  and  corners; 
there  were  soft  velvet  carpets  into  which  the  feet  sank 
luxuriously ;  there  were  smoothly  polished  floors  over  which 
the  feet  seemed  to  glide  as  in  a  perpetual  dance;  there 
were  statues  and  vases  in  bronze,  alabaster  and  marble. 
There  was  a  Jupiter,  a  Mercury,  a  Gladiator;  there  were 
pictures  of  all  kinds  in  crayon,  and  pastel,  in  oil  and 
water  color.  There  was  even  a  Meissonier,  though  as  to 
who  either  Meissonier  or  Jupiter  were,  E.  Gordon  Al- 
lene  had  not  the  slightest  idea.  A  large  marble  Venus  that 
upheld  a  silken  hanging  at  one  door,  always  excited  his 
ire.  "That  thing  would  look  a  great  deal  better  accord- 
ing to  my  notion,  with  that  rag  wrapped  around  her  in- 
stead of  holding  it  off  at  arms'  length,"  he  had  said  to 
his  wife,  but  she  had  silenced  him  by  declaring  it  to  be 
very  artistic.  There  was  Dresden  ware,  there  was  Eoyal 
Worcester  ware,  there  was  Bohemian  glass  ware ;  there 
was  a  Moorish  room,  a  Japanese  room,  an  Egyptian  room ; 
there  was  a  room  upholstered  in  Morris  plushes.  There 
were  finishings  in  oak,  cherry,  mahogany  and  rosewood; 
in  fact,  there  was  anything  and  everything  of  which  one 
could  imagine.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  luxur}^  ease, 
magnificence  and  beauty,  but  there  was  still  a  great  deal 
that  was  vulgarly  pompous  and  glaring  to  an  artistic  eye. 

To-night  the  palatial  residence  flashed  out  like  a  living 
thing,  with  its  myriads  of  lights  twinkling  through 
jeweled  glass,  making  the  dew  upon  the  velvet  lawn  glit- 
ter like  a  thousand  brilliant  emeralds,  and  showing 
glimpses  of  the  splendor  and  glory  within.  The  rolling 
of  wheels  along  the  gritty  gravel  carriage  way;  the  pranc- 
ing and  stamping  of  spirited  steeds,  the  banging  of  car- 
riage doors;  the  voices  of  master  and  groom,  all  told  the 
chance  midnight  passer  by  that  Mrs.  E.  Gordon  Allene 
was  entertaining  society  with  her  usual  regal  magnifi- 
cence. 

The  select  crowd,  nothing  if  not  fashionable,  did  not 
come  until  almost  midnight. 

Such  a  glow  of  patrician  grace  and  beauty !  Surely 
Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was  not  arrayed  like  one  of  these. 


26  A  Girl  of  ChicaofO. 


&' 


There  was  Jonathan  Portleigh,  the  wealthy  banker,  and 
Mrs.  Portleigh,  radiant  in  velvet  and  diamonds. 

There  was  the  elegant  brougham  which  contained  Mrs. 
Kenilworth  Parkes,  who  owed  her  position  to  her  hus- 
band's lucky  speculations  in  real  estate.  With  her  came 
her  daughter,  Mrs.  Ivanhoe  Browne,  who  was  not  at  all 
remarkable,  being  a  comfortable  happy  little  married  wo- 
man, and  who,  although  she  was  not  considered  a  shining 
light  in  society,  because  of  her  reticence  and  indifference 
even,  was  the  brightest  sort  of  a  light  among  her  own  little 
ones. 

Then  came  young  H.  de  Smythe,  who  drove  a  shining 
yellow  team  attached  to  a  shining  yellow  cart,  with  a  shin- 
ing lackey,  all  in  yellow,  bringing  up  the  rear. 

There  was  young  Mrs.  Barnes,  lolling  back  in  an  open 
victoria,  who  might  be  said  to  enjoy  though  married  a 
state  of  single  blessedness,  for  her  lord  and  master  was 
generally  to  be  found  anywhere,  but  in  his  wife's  company, 
which  was  quite  an  unaccountable  thing,  as  Mrs.  Court- 
ney Barnes  was  a  fair  object  to  look  upon,  and  had  hosts 
of  admirers  wherever  she  went. 

Mrs.  Barnes  went  where  she  pleased,  did  as  she  chose, 
and  had  every  luxury  heart  could  wish.  What  more  was 
there  to  be  desired? 

There  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Filbert  Prunell  and  Miss  Maud 
Prunell,  in  diamonds  and  laces — a  carriage  and  four,  and 
Mr.  Maximus  Miller,  of  liver-pill  fame,  in  a  little  coupe, 
who  looked  with  his  weak  constitution  much  more  like  a 
patient,  than  a  healer  of  the  people. 

One  by  one  the  carriages  rolled  up,  emptied  their 
precious  burdens  and  rolled  away.  One  by  one  the  oc- 
cupants passed  out  of  sight,  swallowed  up  in  a  blaze  of 
glory,  and  the  passer  by  seemed  shut  out  as  it  were  from 
the  very  gates  of  Paradise — a  Paradise  surely,  for  the 
burst  of  music,  the  floating  snatches  of  song,  the  gay 
sound  of  laughter,  could  only  mean  great  joy  and  happi- 
ness. 

But  if  the  masks  were  laid  aside !  What  envyings  and 
heart  burnings !  What  hearts  dried  and  shrunken  by  lust 
of  gain !    What  haggard  faces  drawn  and  lined  and  seamed 


A  Peep  at  the  F.  F.  C's.  27 

with  the  knowledge  of  the  skeleton  in  the  closet!  But 
the  masks  were  not  removed.  Everybody  in  Vanity  Fair 
was  gay.  Mammas  sat  smiling,  as  though  they  were  not 
on  thorns  for  fear  each  pretty  daughter  v/ould  not  re- 
ceive her  share  of  attention.  Each  pretty  daughter  laughed 
and  chatted,  floated  about  in  the  dance,  as  though  she 
were  not  on  parade  like  a  beautiful  steed  ready  to  be  dis- 
posed of  to  the  highest  bidder. 

The  ball  room  was  a  dream  of  beauty,  with  its  myriads 
of  lights,  its  great  pots  of  ochre  limoges,  filled  with  stately 
sword  palms  and  ferns  or  masses  of  yellow  roses.  The 
stairway  leading  to  the  temporary  stand  for  the  musi- 
cians was  carpeted  with  yellow  velvet,  and  the  musicians 
themselves  were  screened  from  sight  by  curtains  of  yellow 
silk  embroidered  in  white. 

Mrs.  Allene,  in  a  black  velvet  dress,  with  canary  satin 
front  veiled  with  costly  lace,  stood  smiling  upon  the 
dancers  like  a  Lady  Bountiful. 

Mrs.  Allene  could  do  nothing  but  smile  to-night,  for 
although  her  daughter's  creamy  tulle  dress  was  being  sadly 
crushed,  it  was  being  crushed  against  the  breast  of  a  real 
live  lord,  and  the  Allene  mansion  had  never  before  been 
honored  by  the  presence  of  a  titled  gentleman;  and  not 
only  that,  but  this  titled  gentleman  was  paying  the  most 
marked  attention  to  the  pretty  young  hostess,  while  she, 
regardless  of  the  fact  that  several  young  ladies  posed  as 
wall  flov/ers,  forgot  what  was  quite  the  jDroper  thing  in 
the  exhilaration  of  being  the  centre  of  attraction  for  so 
many  eyes,  and  the  cause  of  so  much  remark.  Her  con- 
ceited little  head  was  very  much  impressed  with  the  idea, 
that  everything  Dora  Allene  did  was  perfectl}^  correct  and 
proper. 

It  was  not  often  that  Lord  Carnleigh  held  so  altogether 
lovely  a  burden  in  his  arms,  for  in  his  own  country  (let 
it  not  be  said  above  a  whisper,  however)  his  was  never 
a  remarkably  welcome  presence,  and  the  women  of  his  ac- 
quaintance were  as  a  rule  possessed  of  rather  cj^uestionable 
reputations.  The  soft  light  hair  that  brushed  his  sleeve 
every  now  and  then,  the  pretty  flushed  face  that  was  lifted 
to  his  own,  filled  him  with  novel  sensations.     Then  how 


28  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

freely  she  talked,  as  though  she  had  known  him  all  her 
life.     English  girls  as  a  rule  were  so  bashful  and  stupid. 

"Aren't  you  immensely  fond  of  dancing?  I  am.  Do 
they  waltz  as  much  in  your  country  as  we  do  here  ?  They 
say  American  girls  are  thinner  than  English  girls  and  not 
so  pretty  altogether,"  looking  up  archly.  "Oh,  I  know 
what  you  are  going  to  say;  you  think  I  am  fishing  for  a 
compliment.  But  I'm  not.  I  think  we  have  lots  of  pretty 
girls  here.  Of  course  we  are  not  all  professional  beauties, 
but  then  being  nothing  but  a  republic,  we  haven't  any 
princes  to  make  us  the  fashion.  I  don't  want  to  dispar- 
age your  country  women,  but  I  don't  think  some  of  your 
professional  beauties  are  entitled  to  the  name.  Wait 
"Until  you  see  Mrs.  Courtney  Barnes.  Who's  she?  That's 
my  friend — my  best  friend.  I  don't  care  much  for  ladies 
myself.  I  guess  I'll  shock  you  when  I  say  I  like  gentle- 
men ever  so  much  better.  Women  are  so  much  narrower 
in  their  ideas  and  they  can  say  such  spiteful  things  of 
one."  So  she  rambled  on  lightly,  amusing  Lord  Carn- 
leigh  by  her  freshness  and  naivete. 

"May  I  have  another  waltz  after  this?"  he  begged. 

"Oh,  you've  had  three  already,  and  I  shall  be  calling 
lots  of  feminine  indignation  down  on  my  poor  head,  if 
I  give  you  another.  Come  with  me  and  I'll  introduce 
you  to  my  paragon,  Mrs.  Barnes." 

Lord  Carnleigh  decided  that  some  of  his  beautiful 
country  women  would  have  had  to  look  to  their  laurels 
had  they  come  into  contact  with  the  queenly  woman  who 
gave  him  a  gracious  bow,  as  Miss  AUene  introduced  him 
to  Mrs.  Courtney  Barnes. 

"I  presume.  Lord  Carnleigh,  the  first  question  you  ex- 
pect of  me  is  *How  do  you  like  America  ?' "  she  said  with 
a  smile. 

"No,  I  have  been  rather  fortunate  in  that  respect.  The 
people  whom  I  have  met  have  taken  it  for  granted  that 
I  like  America,  and  have  entertained  me  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  dissipate  any  prejudices  I  may  have  had," 

The  people  whom  he  had  met  being  principally  a  fast 
set  of  men  who  had  introduced  him  to  their  favorite  re- 
sorts and  entertained  him  in  a  way  in  which  he  was  wont 


A  Peep  at  the  F.   F.  C's.  29 

to  entertain  himself  at  home,  it  is  presumable  that  he  was 
quite  favorably  impressed  with  America  and  Americans. 

"And  Chicago  is  of  course  the  most  wonderful  city  you 
have  visited?" 

"Oh,  of  course.  I  see  you  do  not  really  expect  me  to 
say  so,  but  I  find  many  that  do.  I  think  it  is  a  remark- 
able city  in  many  respects  and  a  beautiful  one,  but  I  am 
expected  to  say  so  whether  that  is  my  opinion  or  not." 

Mrs.  Barnes  tapped  her  feather  fan  against  her  white 
arm. 

"You  must  excuse  that  in  us,  we  are  so  very  young,  you 
know.  Eising  cities  are  like  rising  men,  apt  to  be  puffed 
up  in  their  own  conceit.  By  and  by  when  we  stop  growin;:: 
and  know  for  a  surety  our  place  in  the  universe,  we  shall 
lose  much  of  our  egotism  and  self-conceit." 

"I  can  say  this  much,  with  truth,  Mrs.  Barnes,  that  the 
American  ladies,  at  least  those  it  has  been  my  good  for- 
tune to  meet,  are  the  most  charming,  intelligent  and  beauti- 
ful women  in  the  world." 

A  young  girl  would  have  simpered  over  this  flattering 
speech.  She  simply  looked  at  him  with  her  clear  gray 
eyes  turned  full  upon  him. 

"  'Variety  is  the  very  spice  of  life,'  you  know ;  that's 
the  reason  American  ladies  are  considered  charming.  I 
think  them  delightful  myself.  I  spent  several  years  abroad 
during  my  young  ladyhood,  and  although  I  met  very  many 
brilliant  and  interesting  ladies,  of  almost  every  nationality, 
I  returned  home  quite  self-satisfied  and  puffed  up,  I  fear, 
that  I  was  a  member  of  so  charming  a  sisterhood.  Alas ! 
I  am  as  egotistical  as  the  average  Yankee,  am  I  not?" 

"You  have  two  most  delightful  country  women,"  said 
Lord  Carnleigh  to  Jack  Strainer  some  time  later. 

Jack  nodded. 

"I  know  whom  you  mean.  The  little  Allene's  a  beauty, 
that's  a  fact.  Quite  the  prettiest  woman  out  since  Mrs. 
Barnes  made  her  debut.  She  took  Chicago  by  storm  for 
two  seasons,  and  then  caught  Barnes,  who  was  considered 
a  big  catch  enough ;  had  a  great  church  wedding — splurge, 
splutter  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  and  then  settled  down 
to  married  wretchedness.     Barnes  is  a  first-rate  fellow, 


30  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

though  he  has  taken  to  spreeing  it  lately.  Disappears 
from  view  every  so  often,  indisposed,  you  know,  and  she 
never  knows  where  he  is  until  he  turns  up  sober.  I  don't 
think  she  cares  a  tinker's  whistle  for  him,  but  she  is  a 
proud  woman  and  likes  to  keep  up  appearances." 

"My  dear,"  Mrs.  Barnes  said  to  Dora  Allene  as  they 
stood  talking  together  during  the  evening,  "your  real  live 
lord  is  by  no  means  a  fool.  He  has  been  used  at  some  time 
to  good  society,  but  do  not  let  his  title  run  av/ay  with  you. 
He  has  seen  too  much  of  the  world  for  his  own  good,  and 
his  face  shows  dissipation.  Never  marry  a  dissipated 
man." 

If  just  a  slight  shadow  crossed  her  face  it  was  such  a 
slight  shadow,  and  it  stayed  such  a  bit  of  a  time,  that  one 
could  not  be  sure  it  had  been  there  at  all.  Dora  laughed 
lightly.  Some  of  the  men  she  knew  she  had  heard  called 
dissipated,  or  fast,  at  least.  They  drank  heavily  some 
times  and  were  carried  home  or  put  to  bed  at  their  re- 
spective clubs  a  little  under  the  weather;  but  nobody 
thought  any  the  worse  of  them  for  that.  She  had  heard 
her  brother  stumble  into  the  house  at  two  or  three  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  many  and  many  a  time,  but  then  he  was 
always  around  in  a  day  or  so,  looking  as  v/ell  as  ever,  with- 
out a  trace  of  the  night's  debauchery  about  him.  Of 
course  a  drunken  man  was  a  disgusting  sight — she  had 
taken  two  dollars  out  of  her  dainty  purse  only  last  Sab- 
bath, to  give  to  the  cause  of  temperance.  The  Eev.  Dr. 
Fincastle  had  preached  such  a  touching  sermon,  telling 
about  the  poor  suffering  families,  whose  husbands  and 
fathers  were  miserable  drunkards  and  beat  and  abused 
wife  and  children.  Her  tender  heart  had  been  greatly 
touched,  but  she  could  not  find  it  a  possible  thing  to  as- 
sociate such  men  as  that  with  the  fashionably  dissipated 
men  of  her  acquaintance.  Drunkenness  under  coarse 
clothes  was  a  terrible  thing;  but  being  a  little  overcome 
by  liquor  or  having  a  jolly  little  spree,  under  purple  and 
fine  linen,  was  another  thing  altogether.  So  she  only 
laughed  at  her  friend's  moralizing.  Mrs.  Barnes  had  been 
jesting,  she  was  sure.  Courtney  Barnes  she  had  heard 
called  dissipated,  but  Mrs.  Barnes  was  happy  enough,  and 


A  Peep  at  the  F.  F.  C's.  31 

everybody  envied  her.  Dora  did  not  always  reason  thus. 
She  was  in  a  contrary  mood  with  herself  to-nii;ht. 

"I  don't  want  his  title,"  she  said  gaily,  after  a  moment's 
pause.     "He  is  not  handsome  enough  to  suit  my  tastes." 

Which  remark  was  quite  unkind  of  the  little  lady,  as 
milord  was  thinking  that  she  was  quite  the  prettiest 
girl  he  had  ever  seen  as  he  watched  her  flitting  about 
from  place  to  place,  although  he  was  affecting  at  the  same 
time  to  listen  to  Mrs.  Filbert  PrunelFs  incessant  chatter. 
"And  did  he  like  America  ?  And  wasn't  Chicago  a  wonder- 
ful city — such  a  system  of  parks  and  boulevards  ?  Had  he 
ever  seen  anything  like  it  ?  Did  he  think  American  ladies 
charming?  Everybody  said  they  were.  Of  course  he 
knev/  the  Prince  of  Wales  and  the  Princess,  too,  of  course  ? 
Was  he  (Lord  C.)  acquainted  with  the  Duchess  of  W.  ? 
She  had  met  her  at  Nev/port  one  summer.  Delightful 
lady;  so  aristrocratic,  and  such  an  elegant  family.  Did 
he  not  think  the  United  States  would  be  the  chief  power 
in  the  world  some  day?  Was  London  very  foggy  and  dis- 
agreeable? She  intended  to  go  abroad  next  year — had 
not  gone  before  because  she  felt  a  trifle  nervous  about 
crossing  the  water.  Did  the  English  people  eat  much 
meat  pie?  It  seemed  to  her  in  the  English  books  she  had 
read  that  people  were  always  buying  meat  pies.  Couid 
the  English  girls  walk  five  and  six  miles  at  a  stretch? 
Were  they  healthier  than  American  girls?  Did  he  think 
American  girls  pretty?  (Mrs.  Prunell  had  a  daughter  of 
her  own.)  How  did  he  like  Miss  Allene?  (Mrs.  Pru- 
nell saw  no  impropriety  in  criticising  the  daughter  of  her 
hostess. )  Wasn't  she  a  trifle  short  ?  And  didn't  he  think 
her  complexion  a  trifle  too  brilliant?  Hadn't  the  Al- 
lenes  a  beautiful  new  home?  Was  there  much  difference 
betwixt  the  manner  of  entertaining  in  England  and  in 
America?"  and  so  on  until  Lord  Carnleigh's  head  v/as  in 
a  whirl  and  he  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  even  when  Mr. 
Filbert  Prunell  came  up  and  buttonholed  him,  so  to 
speak.  It  was  out  of  Sylla  into  Charybdis,  however.  Mr. 
Filbert  Prunell  was  as  effusively  American  as  his  wife. 

Mind  you — I  do  not  mean  to  insinuate  anything  against 
my  great  and  glorious  country  or  fellow  country  men. 


32  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

No  more  delightful  individual  exists  than  a  thoroughly 
refined  American  man  or  woman ;  but  there  is  a  type  of 
person — an  American  full  of  vrilgar  Americanisms  from 
whom  we  say  with  the  prayer  book,  "Good  Lord,  deliver 
us." 

"Did  Lord  Carnleigh  like  America?  What  did  he 
think  of  the  government  ?  What  did  he  think  of  the  com- 
mercial outlook?  Had  he  visited  the  Board  of  Trade? 
"Was  it  not  the  most  stupendous  thing  of  the  kind  he  had 
ever  seen?  Had  not  Chicago  grown  marvellously  since 
the  fire?  A  very  phcenix  risen  from  the  flames — the  me- 
tropolis of  the  world  some  day,  sir — "  and  so  on  ad  infin- 
itum, had  not  young  Allene  taken  compassion  upon  him 
and  led  him  away  to  introduce  him  to  a  group  of  pretty 
girls,  much  to  the  dismay  of  Mamma  Prunell,  who  had 
been  watching  anxiously  for  her  own  daughter. 

He  met  Miss  Prunell  later  in  the  evening,  much  to  her 
mother's  relief.  She  was  rather  a  pretty  girl,  tall,  dark, 
with  bright  eyes  and  a  very  animated  way  of  talking. 
She  was  a  trifle  too  gushing,  a  trifle  too  slangy,  but  she 
was  young  and  good  looking,  and  that  made  her  easier  to 
endure  than  either  her  father  or  her  mother.  She  gestic- 
ulated a  great  deal  and  had  an  odd  way  of  opening  her 
eyes  and  flashing  thom  out  upon  one  at  intervals. 

"I  shall  be  awfully  glad  when  the  season's  over,"  she 
was  saying;  "summer's  the  time,  I  tell  you.  I'm  dying 
to  go  to  Long  Branch  this  year.  Mamma  likes  Newport 
because  more  'swells'  go  there.  Do  you  swim  ?  I  dote  on 
it.  I  can  swim  like  a  duck  too.  Do  you  know  what  I'm 
going  to  do  this  year?  I'm  going  to  hire  a  yacht  for  the 
summer.  I  love  to  sail  a  boat,  don't  you?  I  can  sail  one 
like  an  old  tar  too.  I'm  going  to  have  a  bathing  suit 
made  to  wear  under  my  yachting  dress,  and  if  any  acci- 
dent should  happen  I  can  throw  oif  my  yachting  dress  and 
swim  to  shore." 

She  threw  out  her  arms  by  way  of  an  illustration,  and 
elevated  her  pretty  chin  as  though  to  hold  it  up  out  of 
the  water. 

"Brighton  is  the  great  resort  for  you  English  people, 
isn't  it?"  she  questioned,  without,  however,  giving  him 


A  Peep  at  the  F.  F.  C's.  33 

time  to  answer.  "Is  it  perfectly  grand?  I  am  sure  it  is. 
Does  the  Prince  of  Wales  go  there?  I've  heard  he  was 
awfully  handsome.  Does  he  notice  American  ladies  very 
much?  Mamma's  going  to  take  me  to  Europe  next  year. 
She  imagines  I'll  make  a  sensation,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  Well,  may  be  I  shall.  I'd  like  it  immensely  if 
I  could." 

Lord  Carnleigh  looked  at  her  curiously.  She  talked  of 
making  a  sensation  in  England  in  the  same  delightful 
sort  of  way  that  a  child  might  talk  of  wishing  to  go  to  a 
circus. 

"Some  of  these  Americans  were  deuced  queer  people. 
They  talked  in  a  large  way,  talked  a  great  deal  and  wouldn't 
allow  a  fellow  to  get  a  word  in  edgewise."  They  rather 
amused  him  though,  especially  the  young  ladies,  who  pre- 
sented to  him  an  entirely  new  type  of  womankind.  He 
was  left  to  these  reflections  by  the  carrying  away  of  Miss 
Maud  Prunell. 


34  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    ALMIGHTY    DOLLAR. 
•'In  hoc  signo  viuces." 

Chicago  weather  is  as  a  usual  thing  too  delightful  dur- 
ing the  summer  months  to  necessitate  a  change  of  cli- 
mate, for  comfort's  sake  at  least.  Nevertheless,  society 
feels  called  upon  to  lower  its  shades,  close  its  blinds,  and 
leave  for  green  fields  and  pastures  new.  It  would  be  al- 
together too  disgraceful  to  be  seen  upon  the  streets  of 
Chicago  during  the  season  when  everybody  who  is  anybody 
is  out  of  town.  The  last  of  the  season  had  been  un- 
usually gay.  Beside  the  Allene  ball,  which  had  been  a 
grand  aifair,  there  had  been  a  cotillion  at  Tingley's,  par- 
ticipated in  by  the  "everybody  who  was  anybody''  ele- 
ment. At  least  so  the  papers  said,  appearing  the  next 
morning  with  a  long  article  telling  all  about  it — who  were 
there,  and  what  they  wore  and  how  they  wore  it. 

There  were  all  of  the  chosen  few.  Never  before  was 
such  a  cotillion — a  column  and  a  half  were  taken  to  de- 
scribe everybody  and  everything  minutely,  that  the  vulgar 
multitude  might  learn  from  what  a  glorious  Eden  they 
were  excluded. 

Then  some  one  arranged  a  drive  to  Washington  Park 
with  a  costly  banquet  at  the  goal.  It  fell  upon  a  bright 
delightful  day,  and  was  eminently  a  success. 

Chicago  is  perhaps  too  apt  to  flaunt  her  boulevards  in 
the  faces  of  her  less  fortunate  neighbors,  but  she  has  a 
right  at  least  to  be  proud  of  them.    At  no  time  can  a 


The  Almighty  Dollar.  35 

stranger  obtain  a  more  favorable  impression  of  the  Garden 
City  than  when,  on  a  bright  day,  her  citizens  gather  them- 
selves together  in  a  mighty  moving  concourse  upon  her 
various  boulevards  and  drives.  The  select  party  who  drove 
to  Washington  Park  made  a  very  pretty  showing.  Lord 
Carnleigh  drove  Bartley  Brincoe's  tally-ho,  with  Miss 
Allene  upon  the  box  seat  beside  him,  and  Bartley  Brincoe 
and  a  select  party  on  the  seats  behind.  Young  H.  de 
Smytho,  with  his  yellow  cart,  tandem  team  and  Miss 
Prunell,  and  by  no  means  least  because  last,  the  footman, 
was  quite  conscious  of  cutting  a  dash.  Then  there  were 
mail  phaetons.  White  Chapel  carts,  Kensingtons,  victorias, 
all  filled  with  gaily  dressed  men  and  women  who  looked 
extremely  well  satisfied  with  themselves  and  the  world  in 
general.  However,  the  season  was  over  at  last.  Everybody 
was  out  of  town — the  streets  were  quite  deserted,  at  least 
so  the  folks  out  of  them  fondly  imagined,  although  a 
casual  observer  would  not  have  noticed  an  appreciable 
difference.  The  Allene  mansion  looked  gloomily  silent, 
and  the  Allenes  had  betaken  themselves  to  Newport,  where 
pretty  Miss  Allene  was  creating  a  sensation  partly  for  her 
youth  and  beauty  but  principally  because  she  had  a  peer 
of  the  realm  dangling  at  her  heels. 

Young  Will  watched  the  papers,  the  Sunday  papers  es- 
pecially, very  closely,  although  why  he  did  so  is  a  mystery, 
as  they  were  fast  becoming  instruments  of  torture  to  his 
heart. 

"Pretty  Miss  Allene,  of  Chicago,  radiant  in  pearl  silk 
and  diamonds,  was  the  most  conspicuous  figure  of  the 
ball  at  the  Casino  last  evening." 

"Lord  Carnleigh  is  very  assiduous  in  his  attentions  to 
Miss  Allene,  the  beautiful  Chicago  girl  who  is  quite  the 
prettiest  debutante  out  this  season." 

"There  is  a  strong  suspicion  here  that  we  are  about  to 
lose  and  England  to  gain  another  American  beauty,  as 
Lord  Caruleigirs  devotion  to  the  daughter  of  the  million- 
aire merchant,  E.  Gordon  Allene,  looks  very  much  as 
though  his  lordship  intended  taking  unto  himself  a  wife." 

All  of  which  newspaper  notices  caused  young  Will  to 
imagine  himself  a  much  abused  individual.     From  being 


36  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

a  bright,  lively  young  fellow,  he  grew  so  gloomy  and  morose 
as  to  astonish  even  himself;  and  he  almost  gave  up  all 
hope  when  he  saw  the  announcement  of  the  engagement  of 
"Lord  Carnleigh,  eldest  son  of  the  Marquis  of  Winfield, 
to  Miss  Medora  Allene,  the  daughter  of  E.  Gordon  Allene, 
of  Chicago." 

A  column  and  a  half  were  devoted  to  the  account  of  Miss 
Allene's  wit,  beauty  and  social  position  and  of  Lord  Carn- 
leigh's  name,  title,  family — father,  grandfather,  great 
grandfather,  great  great  grandfather,  and  so  on  and  so 
forth.  There  was  no  account  whatever  of  his  reputation 
as  a  sporting  man,  of  his  acquaintance  with  all  the  riff- 
raff of  England  and  France  and  of  much  else  of  an  equally 
interesting  nature. 

Of  little  concern  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  what  he  was 
or  had  been.  His  title  was  in  the  market,  and  so  was  pretty 
Miss  Allene's  gold,  and  what  American  girl  would  not  ex- 
change her  money  for  a  real  title  ?  Think  of  being  called 
Lady  So  and  So,  or  the  Duchess  of  Something  or  other! 
Why,  it  quite  takes  the  breath  away  from  the  daughter  of 
a  republic  where  such  titles  as  Mayor,  Colonel  or  the  Hon- 
orable, are  the  strongest  known. 

Mrs.  Allene  was  in  her  element.  Her  daughter  was  one 
of  the  first  Chicago  girls  who  had  ever  been  engaged  to  a 
real  live  lord.  The  papers  were  full  of  it.  She  would 
certainly  spend  much  time  in  England  with  her  daughter; 
visions  of  tea-drinkings  and  afternoon  calls  with  the  Queen 
herself,  flitted  across  her  mind.  She  built  airy  castles, 
that  piled  mountains  high  before  her.  Lords,  ladies, 
duchesses,  countesses  would  be  her  daily  companions. 

"My  dear  friend  the  Duchess  of  So  and  So,"  or  "Dear 

Countess   "    she   could   speak   of   intimately   to   her 

friends. 

Not  that  she  ever  said  anything  of  the  kind.  Outward- 
ly she  appeared  to  take  the  fact  of  her  daughter's  engage- 
ment coolly  enough,  but  inv/ardly  she  was  in  a  state  of  ec- 
static bliss.  She  was  looking  through  rose-colored  glasses, 
and  the  world  had  never  taken  so  bright  a  hue  before. 
When  the  marriage  of  her  daughter  to  Lord  Carnleigh 
should  be  consummated,  there  would  be  nothing  more  tq 


The  Almighty  Dollar.  37 

Ue  'desired.  'And  the  little  bride-elect?  The  most  flat- 
tered, discussed  and  envied  girl  in  Newport,  and  Chicago 
too,  for  that  matter — what  of  her?  She  was  pleased,  of 
course — why,  it  would  have  been  absurd  for  her  to  have 
experienced  any  other  feeling — at  least  so  thought  Mamma 
Allene.  She  had  looked  upon  her  own  marriage  with  a 
business  eye.  She  fully  coincided  with  the  opinion  Field- 
ing puts  in  the  mouth  of  one  of  his  characters,  viz. :  that 
"women  consider  matrimony  as  men  do  offices  of  public 
trust,  only  as  the  means  of  making  their  fortunes  and  of 
advancing  themselves  in  the  world."  Indeed,  as  people 
grow  older,  they  are  apt  to  lose  their  romance.  No  matter 
how  much  a  mother  may  have  been  in  love  with  the  man 
of  her  choice,  she  is  apt  when  arranging  for  her  daughter's 
marriage  to  favor  the  lover  who  can  the  most  "worldly 
goods  with  her  endow."  And  this  mother,  who  was  al- 
ways worldly-wise,  who  had  never  been  what  one  may  call 
in  love  in  her  younger  days  with  the  man  she  married, 
could  see  no  reason  whatever  that  her  daughter  should 
not  be  very  well  satisfied  with  the  outlook.  True,  she  was 
not  obtaining  the  worldly  goods,  but  she,  having  the  world- 
ly goods  already  in  her  possession,  was  going  to  do  some- 
thing still  better.  As  for  the  girl  herself — well,  there  was 
enough  of  human  nature  about  her  to  cause  her  to  feel 
some  pleasure  at  being  flattered,  envied,  and  noticed.  She 
was  not  blind  to  the  comment  she  excited,  to  the  praise 
her  youth,  beauty  and  success  matrimonially  elicited — 
but  that  was  all.  She  had  no  thought  of  love  for  the 
man  she  had  pledged  herself  to  marry. 

She  knew  she  had  bought  his  title,  and  that  he  cared 
far  more  for  her  money  than  for  her  pretty  face.  And 
her  heart?  Oh,  she  could  keep  that  herself — or  give  it — 
well,  never  mind,  it  had  been  useless  to  try  to  stem  the 
tide.  She  had  been  like  a  piece  of  drift  wood  carried  by 
the  current.  Nevertheless,  she  yielded  to  an  impulse  one 
day  after  her  return  to  Chicago. 

"Mamma,"  she  said,  coming  into  the  room  where  her 
mother  sat  ensconced  in  a  large  easy  chair  with  a  box 
of  bon-bons  in  her  lap,  reading  the  latest  novel,  "I  am 
going  out  for  an  hour  or  so." 


38  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

"Have  you  ordered  the  carriage,  dear?"  Mamma  Al- 
lene  was  very  gracious  to  her  daughter  in  these  days. 

"No,  I  think  I  shall  take  a  car.  I  shall  not  be  gone 
very  long;^^  she  hesitated  a  little.  "Mamma,  I  want  to  be 
frank  with  you.     I  am  going  to  meet  a  gentleman." 

Mamma  Allene  looked  up  quickly.  "What  are  you  talk- 
ing about,  Medora?"  she  asked  in  a  sharp  tone. 

"I  am  going  out  to  the  park,  mamma,  to  meet  "Will 
Porter." 

Mrs.  Allene  sprang  to  her  feet,  showering  the  bon-bons 
over  the  head  of  the  silken  spaniel  that  lay  at  her  feet.  The 
little  creature  whined  like  a  spoiled  child,  but  his  mistress 
paid  no  attention  to  him. 

"You  shameless  girl !  And  you  tell  me  this  to  my  face 
— that  you  are  going  to  meet  that  man — going  to  a  public 
park  like  any  common  servant — you,  a  girl  who  expects 
to  make  the  best  match  of  the  season !  What  would  Lord 
Carnleigh  say  about  it?  Have  you  no  respect  either  for 
yourself  or  your  chosen  husband?  What  would  your 
father  say,  do  you  think  ?  I  tell  you,  you'll  let  that  chance 
slip  through  your  fingers  yet — and  after  all  I've  done  too." 

It  was  too  much.  Mamma  Allene  dropped  back  into  her 
chair  with  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

Dora  was  very  pale,  but  her  face  was  resolute. 

"I  am  sorry  to  make  you  feel  so  badly,  mamma,  but  I 
am  determined  to  keep  my  engagement  this  afternoon.  I 
should  have  invited  this  gentleman  to  the  house,  but  I 
knew  there  were  orders  not  to  admit  him,  and  I  desired 
very  much  to  see  him.  I  see  nothing  wrong  in  it.  He  was 
a  friend  of  ours  once,  he  was  always  kind,  always  a  gentle- 
man. You  need  not  feel  afraid  of  me,  mamma.  If  I 
had  not  intended  to  be  honorable  with  you  I  should  have 
kept  my  appointment  without  telling  you.  I  pledge  you 
my  word,  I  shall  do  nothing  not  befitting  an  engaged 
girl.  I  can't  help  v/hat  papa  would  say  or  think.  I  don't 
mean  to  be  disrespectful  to  you  or  3^our  desires,  but  I  am 
determined  to  see  Will  Porter  this  afternoon.  I  have 
endeavored  to  please  you  in  everything  concerning  this  af- 
fair, but  if  you  try  to  throw  any  obstacles  in  my  way  to 
prevent  my  keeping  my  engagement  to-day,  I  shall  flatly 


The  Almighty  Dollar.  39 

refuse  to  marry  Lord  Carnleigh,  and  that  will  be  the  end 
of  it." 

It  was  of  no  use.     Mamma  Allene  dried  her  tears. 

"Well,  go  your  own  way,  girl,"  she  said  coldly.  "You're 
just  like  your  father.  When  he  makes  up  his  mind  to  do 
anything,  he's  stubborn  as  a  mule.  Only,"  her  voice  was 
beginning  to  shake  a  little — this  match  was  so  close  to  her 
heart,  "I  beg  of  you  not  to  do  anything — "  she  stopped, 
looking  at  her  daughter  in  a  half  pleading  sort  of  way. 

Dora  gave  a  short  laugh.  "Oh,  you  need  not  be  afraid 
of  my  eloping  or  doing  anything  disgraceful  of  that 
sort.  I'm  not  fond  enough  of  making  a  sensation  for 
that." 

She  was  acquiring  a  sarcastic  manner  in  these  days, 
which  did  not  sit  well  upon  her.  A  sort  of  rebellious,  de- 
fiant mood  was  upon  her  to-day.  She  walked  along 
Prairie  Avenue  in  a  frame  of  mind  that  Avould  have  trou- 
bled Mamma  Allene  exceedingly  had  she  been  able  to  read 
her  daughter's  thoughts.  She  felt  inclined  to  run  away 
by  herself,  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  if  she  could  only  get 
away  from  herself!  The  street  cars  she  found  rather 
amusing.  She  did  not  often  ride  in  them.  It  was  a  sort 
of  hobby  with  Mamma  Allene  to  use  her  carriage  (after 
she  attained  one)  upon  every  occasion,  and  by  no  means, 
if  possible,  either  to  walk  or  get  into  a  car.  Dora  had 
been  taught  to  associate  street  cars  with  common  people, 
and  she  could  not  quite  disabuse  her  mind  of  the  idea  that 
she  was  made  in  a  different  mold  from  these  people — not 
by  virtue  of  any  blue  blood — Mamma  Allene,  despite  the 
coat  of  arms,  had  never  said  much  about  that  (and  then 
that  is  not  the  sort  of  social  grading  she  was  wont  to 
make),  but  by  virtue  of  having  more  dollars  at  her  com- 
mand than  the  common  run  of  mortals.  Nevertheless, 
there  is,  thank  God,  a  divine  womanhood  about  some  wo- 
men, that  cannot  be  wholly  obliterated  by  false  teaching 
and  doctrines ;  and  this  little  woman  was  not  entirely 
spoiled,  although  her  better  nature  v/as  crusted  over  with 
a  very  worldly  selfishness.  Whatever  she  might  be,  she 
was  very  fair  to  look  upon ;  at  least  so  thought  young  Will, 
as  he  watched  her  coming  down  the  gravel  walk  to  the  ap- 


40  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

pointed  place  of  meeting.  The  round  figure  was  clad  in 
a  long,  brown  broadcloth  coat  that  showed  its  outlines  to 
perfection.  A  brown  felt  walking  hat  with  stiff  brown 
wings  rested  becomingly  upon  the  soft  light  hair;  trim 
patent  leather  shoes  set  off  the  dainty  feet.  In  her  hand 
she  carried  a  tightly  rolled  umbrella  with  a  long  twisted 
silver  handle.  She  looked  very  trim  and  very  stylish — 
a  veritable  girl  of  the  period ;  but  best  of  all  was  the  pretty 
face  that  v\-ould  have  looked  what  it  was;  a  fair,  fresh 
girl-face,  above  a  dress  of  any  age.  Such  a  face,  above  a 
flowered  silk  and  snowy  kerchief,  made  some  heart  beat 
the  faster,  one  hundred  years  ago.  Such  another  face 
would  make  the  pulses  quicken  one  hundred  years  to  come. 
What  a  soft  color  came  into  it,  as  young  Porter  came  eager- 
ly towards  her !  His  own  face  was  very  pale  as  he  took  the 
small  gloved  hand  in  his. 

It  had  been  almost  a  year  since  he  had  seen  her  thus, 
to  speak  to  face  to  face.  What  a  familiar  little  nod  and 
smile  she  gave  him,  just  as  though  they  had  parted  but 
yesterday. 

"You  wanted  to  see  me?"  she  said,  with  a  charmingly 
inquiring  air. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  quietly,  although  his  heart  was 
beating  so  loudly  he  thought  she  surely  must  have  heard 
it.  "I  wanted  to  see  you  very  much,  but  I  hardly  hoped 
to  have  that  pleasure.     It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  come." 

She  laughed  a  little.  She  was  always  something  of  a 
coquette. 

"Oh,  no,  not  particularly  kind,  for  I  really  rather  wanted 
to  see  you  myself." 

He  looked  up  eagerly.  He  had  a  clean-cut,  boyish  face, 
with  a  remarkably  pleasant  expression  about  the  eyes  and 
mouth. 

"I  was  afraid  I  had  passed  out  of  the  pale  of  your  recol- 
lection." 

They  had  turned  down  a  quiet  secluded  walk  as  if  by 
mutual  consent. 

"No,  I  have  thought  of  you,  very  often.  You  know  we 
were  very  good  friends  once.  That  was  why  I  wrote  you 
to  meet  me." 


The  Almighty  Dollar.  41 

It  had  been  a  Httle  conceit  of  hers  to  speak  as  though 
he  had  requested  her  to  meet  him,  when  in  reality  he  had 
come  at  her  written  solicitation.  He  had  the  note  in  his 
pocket  now. 

"You  know  that  I'm  to  be  married  soon/'  it  read,  "but 
I  have  a  fancy  to  see  you  once  more  for  the  sake  of  the 
days  when  you  were  my  very  good  brother.'' 

He  had  read  it  over  and  over.  She  had  told  him  where 
and  at  what  hour  to  meet  her,  and  he  was  here.  What  was 
to  be  the  outcome  of  it  all  ?     He  could  not  tell. 

"And  we  can  never  be  good  friends  again,  I  suppose," 
he  said  bitterly. 

She  looked  up  at  him  from  under  her  lashes.  "Why 
not?" 

He  thought  she  was  trifling  with  him  and  stood  directly 
in  front  of  her.  "Why  did  you  write  me  to  meet  you  ?"  he 
said  sternly. 

She  turned  away  with  an  angry  flush  upon  her  face.  "If 
I  had  known  you  had  become  so  disagreeable,  I  should  not 
have  written  you  at  all." 

He  caught  her  arm.  "Dora — Miss  Allene,  I  did  not 
intend  to  be  harsh  or  rough  with  you." 

What  strange  creatures  women  are !  When  she  turned 
towards  him  again,  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"Dora,"  he  said  penitently,  "I'm  a  brute.    Forgive  me." 

She  smiled  through  her  tears.  "You  are  the  same  kind- 
hearted,  impulsive  boy  you  always  were.  Will.  It  was  not 
that — you  did  not  hurt  my  feelings.  I  was  thinking  I 
had  made  a  mistake  to  write  you  at  all.  You  know  I  used 
to  depend  upon  you  so,"  with  a  pretty,  childish  air  that 
went  to  his  heart,  "I've  been  so  restless  and  unsettled 
lately,  and  I've  had  no  one  in  whom  to  confide.  No  one 
at  home  understands  me,  and  I've  a  pride  about  letting 
outsiders  know  my  affairs.  It  seemed  as  though  if  I 
could  only  see  you  and  talk  to  you,  as  I  used  to  do,  I  should 
feel  so  much  better.     But  I  see  I've  made  a  mistake." 

He  gently  drew  her  down  upon  a  bench  beside  him.  "I 
don't  think  you  have,  Dora.  I  shall  try  not  to  thrust  my 
own  feelings  upon  you.     What  is  it  that  troubles  you?" 


42  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

His  voice  was  so  kind,  Dora  broke  down  and  sobbed  as  if 
her  heart  would  break.     He  was  greatly  agitated. 

"Dora,  you  are  not  happy.  You  do  not  love  the  man 
you  are  about  to  marry.''  She  only  sobbed  the  more,  and 
he  caught  her  hand  in  his.  "Dora,  I  know  what  I  am 
saying  is  true.  I  shall  not  say  one  word  for  myself,  but 
for  your  own  sake,  Dora,  do  not  marry  this  man.  He  is 
not  worthy  of  you.  I  have  heard  about  him  all  over  town ; 
he  is  fast  and  dissipated." 

She  dried  her  tears  quickly.  "Don't  say  any  more, 
please.  It  is  not  honorable  for  me  to  listen.  You  are 
speaking  of  the  man  I  have  pledged  myself  to  marry." 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  walked  up  and  down  excitedly. 
"Why  did  you  write  to  me  at  all?  Did  you  think  I  did 
not  suffer  enough?  What  do  you  think  of  my  position? 
You  know,  you  must  know  I  love  you  better  than  my  own 
life.  You  know  I  have  no  chance  of  winning  you.  I,  a 
poor  wretch,  with  no  prospects  in  life — you  a  girl  raised 
in  luxury,  from  babyhood.  You  write  to  me  to  meet  you. 
You  show  me  very  plainly  you  do  not  love  the  man  you 
expect  to  marry,  and  yet  you  will  allow  me  to  say  nothing. 
Why  did  you  wish  to  see  me  at  all  ?" 

It  v/as  Dora's  turn  to  sooth  now.  "Sit  down.  Will," 
she  said  gently,  pulling  him  down  upon  the  bench  with 
gentle  force.  "Do  not  misunderstand  me  until  you  hear 
what  I  have  to  say.  I  see  that  I  have  made  a  mistake  in 
writing  to  you,  but  I  want  to  exonerate  myself  if  I  can. 
I  did  not  know  that  you  still  cared  for  me.  Will;  had  I 
known  it  I  should  not  have  seen  you  again.  You  were 
always  my  good,  kind  friend  and  I  wanted  to  see  you.  I 
do  not  know  what  possesses  me,  but  I  have  not  been  quite 
happy  lately.  You  know  I  am  going  very  far  away  to  live, 
and  I  thought  I  should  like  to  see  you  and  talk  with  you 
once  more.  I  know  that  you  have  already  suffered  wrong 
enough  at  our  hands.  I  would  not  willingly  give  you  one 
moment's  pain.  I,  truly,  did  not  know  that  you  still  loved 
me.  Will.     Do  you  believe  me?" 

He  nodded  his  head,  looking  at  her  in  a  hopeless  sort  of 
way.    "And  you  never  loved  me  at  all,  Dora  ?" 

A  faintness  cam.e  over  her.    It  seemed  for  a  moment  as 


The  Almighty  Dollar.  43 

though  she  would  fall  to  the  ground ;  but  she  steadied  her- 
self with  an  effort. 

"I  think  I  had  better  go  home,"  she  said  presently. 

Will  was  very  pale^  but  he  reached  out  his  hand  to  her. 

"I  am  sorry  I  asked  you  that  question,  .Dora.  It  was 
not  manly.  You  are  not  angry  with  me?  We  shall  part 
friends  ?" 

Dora  rose  to  her  feet  but  kept  her  eyes  turned  away. 

"I  am  going  to  say  something  to  you  that  perhaps  I 
had  better  leave  unsaid;  but  I  feel  sorry  for  you — oh,  so 
sorry !"  She  paused  a  moment,  drawing  in  her  underlip 
with  a  sort  of  sobbing  sound.  "If  I  had  been  difrerently 
situated,  if  we  had  been  thrown  together  more — if  the 
tide  had  not  been  so  strong  against  me — I  might  have  been 
a  happier  girl  than  I  am  to-day — I  might  have  loved  you." 

"Oh,  Dora,  Dora !  Is  it  so  hopeless  ?  Could  you  not 
love  me  now  ?    I  know  I  am  not  worthy " 

She  raised  her  hand  deprecatingly.  "Please  don't  say 
any  more.  It  only  distresses  us  both.  I  promised  mamma 
to  be  honorable.  I  am  soon  to  be  married,  I  must  not  hear 
any  more.     Good-bye." 

If  she  had  not  looked  so  pale  and  distressed  as  she 
stood  holding  out  her  hand,  he  might  have  thought  she  was 
mocking  him. 

"Good-bye,"  he  answered  as  quietly  as  he  could,  clasp- 
ing her  hand  for  a  moment  very  tightly.  "May  God  bless 
you  always,  Dora."  Then  after  a  pause — "It  is  growing 
late,  shall  I  accompany  you  home?" 

"No,  no,  it  is  better  not.  I  shall  be  safe  enough;"  and 
she  turned  away. 

He  stood  watching  her  until  she  was  out  of  sight.  It 
seemed  to  this  young  man  as  though  a  part  of  his  life 
had  gone  from  him.  He  felt  old  and  weak.  It  was 
dreadful  to  watch  this  woman  moving  farther  and  farther 
away  from  him,  to  know  that  she  was  going  out  of  liis  life 
never  to  return — to  know  that  she  never  could  be  anything 
to  him — to  know  that  she  was  to  belong  to  another,  a  man 
totally  unworthy  of  her.  Why  had  she  tortured  him  by 
wishing  to  see  him  at  all?     Had  she  been  mocking  him 


44  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

after  all?  No,  no.  Her  face  told  the  story.  She  "might 
have  loved  him,"  she  had  said. 

Oh,  God  !  Why  should  such  things  be  ?  Why  must  they 
be  separated  ? 

The  growing  darkness  seemed  to  envelop  him  in  its 
gloom.  Foolish  boy !  If  she  had  not  been  so  far  out  of 
his  reach  he  might  not  have  prized  her  so.  Or  if  circum- 
stances had  been  different  and  he  had  married  her,  they 
might  have  found  married  life  anything  but  the  Paradise 
on  earth,  lovers  suppose  it  to  be.  But  then,  how  was  he 
to  know  that  ?    How  could  he  think  of  such  'things  ? 

Despite  the  bitter  resentment  against  Fate,  there  still 
welled  up  in  his  heart  a  faint  hope  that  something  might 
happen — that  she  might  one  day  be  his. 

And  she? — I  suppose  it  would  have  been  so  much  more 
noble  and  disinterested  in  her  to  have  married  him  and 
given  up  everything  for  his  sake — but  we  must  not  judge 
harshly — the  girl  had  been  used  to  ease  and  luxury  all 
her  life.  Whenever  the  handsome  boyish  face  of  young 
Will  came  before  her  mind's  eye,  her  heart  beat  the  faster 
— but  then  came  other  faces — the  faces  of  her  mother,  of 
her  father,  of  Lord  Carnleigh — a  hundred  faces  that 
flittered  by  her  in  her  daily  and  social  life — the  tide  was 
too  strong  for  her  to  breast. 


A  Bird  in  the  Hand.  45 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A    BIRD    IN    THE    HAND. 

Mamma  Allene  felt  immensely  relieved  wnen  she  heard 
her  daughter  come  up  the  wide  oak  stairway  and  go  to  her 
room.  It  was  nearing  the  dinner  hour  and  despite  Dora's 
assurance  that  there  would  be  no  elopement,  slie  had  been 
growing  more  and  more  uneasy  at  her  daughter's  non- 
appearance. She  knew  the  girl  was  an  upright  little 
thing  and  intended  to  stand  by  her  word — but  then  girls 
in  love,  or  at  least  girls  who  thought  they  were,  especially 
rebellious,  self-willed  girls  like  this  one,  were  rather  hard 
to  handle;  3^ou  couldn't  always  tell  just  what  they  might 
do.  Strange,  that  the  girl  couldn't  see  what  was  for  her  best 
interests.  Strange  she  should  let  her  heart  overbalance 
her  head.  In  fact,  it  was  strange  that  Dora  hadn't  more 
of  her  far-sightedness,  indeed,  her  cleverness,  she  might 
say.  (God  grant  that  the  girl  might  never  let  the  clever- 
ness of  her  head,  run  away  with  the  tenderness  of  her 
heart,  as  this  mother  would  have  desired.)  A  load  was 
lifted  off  her  mind  at  Dora's  return,  v/hich  banished  all 
her  vague  uneasy  fears,  and  she  appeared  at  dinner  suave 
and  smiling,  with  no  trace  of  annoyance  upon  her  face. 
In  the  quick  glance  with  which  she  scanned  Dora's  face, 
she  could  not  see  that  the  girl  looked  at  all  worried  or 
distressed — on  the  contrary,  there  was  a  great  deal  of 
color  in  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  were  shining  brightly. 
She  wore  a  white  wool  gown  embroidered  in  gold,  and  lined 
with  rose-colored  silk ;  her  hair  was  twisted  in  a  knot  at  the 
back  of  her  head  and  run  through  with  a  gold  dagger,  set 


46  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

with  diamonds.  Perhaps  she  wore  too  many  costly  rings, 
to  be  in  strictly  good  taste  for  so  young  a  woman,  but  she 
looked  very  fair  aiid  dainty  nevertheless. 

Mamma  Allene  felt  great  satisfaction  in  the  girl's  beauty. 
"She  would  make  as  good  an  appearance  as  anv  of  their 
ladies  and  duchesses."  And  as  for  dress,  none  of  them 
should  outshine  her.  She  should  have  such  an  outfit  as 
would  make  the  Queen  herself  stare.  What  a  wedding  they 
would  have !  Mamma  Allene  would  often  lose  herself  in 
the  contemplation  thereof.  And  lest  anything  should 
happen  to  prevent,  she  must  hasten  the  time.  There  was 
a  lurking  uneasiness  in  her  mind,  despite  Dora's  seeming 
gaiety. 

Such  pranks  as  that  this  afternoon  were  not  to  be 
countenanced.  There  was  no  telling  to  what  they  might 
lead. 

"Edward,"  she  said  to  her  husband  after  they  were  in 
bed  that  night,  "I  think  we  had  better  begin  to  arrange 
for  Dora's  wedding." 

Her  husband  sat  propped  up  in  bed  with  the  evening 
paper.  Sleep  is  one  of  the  few  things  that  money  can- 
not buy,  and  Allene  senior  found  it  necessary  to  read  him- 
self to  sleep  nigbt  after  night,  if  he  desired  any  rest  at 
all.  It  was  an  hour  when  a  man  should  be  at  peace  with 
himself  and  all  the  world,  if  ever  comes  such  an  hour. 
Conventional  forms,  even  the  conventional  dress  thrown 
aside,  he  is  more  in  the  original  state  both  physically  and 
mentally,  in  which  nature  made  him,  than  he  is  at  any 
other  time  of  the  day.  He  may  cast  aside  the  mask  of  his 
conventional  life  and  luxuriate  in  this  freedom  from  forms 
and  proprieties.  No  more  blessed  hour  if  a  man  can  but 
drop  worries,  vexations,  cares,  and  yawning,  stretching, 
nestling  down  among  his  pillows,  fall  away  into  that  God- 
given  condition  which  is  bought  "without  money  and  with- 
out price,"  and  which  comes  to  the  low  as  to  the  high,  the 
poor  as  to  the  rich — sleep. 

The  millionaire  who  sat  propped  up  among  his  pillows 
found  sleep  a  hard  mistress  to  woo.  "Can  a  leopard  change 
its  spots  ?"  No  more  could  E.  Gordon  Allene  lay  aside  his 
business  cares  when  he  left  his  office  and  returned  to  his 


A  Bird  in  the  Hand.  47 

home.  Sometimes  an  evening  party  or  an  hour  or  so  at 
the  play  would  divert  his  thoughts,  but  so  surely  as  he  got 
into  his  bed,  closed  his  eyes  and  tried  to  sleep,  his  busy 
brain  began  its  work.  He  thought  over  the  profits  of  the 
day  and  arranged  for  more  profits  on  the  morrow.  Very 
dearly  had  he  paid  for  the  riches  heaped  high  before  him 
in  his  loss  of  brain  and  nerve  power  and  this  miserable 
insomnia,  which  seemed  to  be  growing  upon  him  of  late. 
It  seemed  almost  impossible  for  him,  after  he  retired,  to 
get  his  mind  off  of  himself — and  no  wonder.  All  his  life 
he  had  spent  in  concentrating  his  thoughts  upon  him- 
self, but  little  wonder  that  the  habit  had  grown  upon  him. 
Sometimes  a  horrible  thought  came  to  him,  that  made; 
him  grow  hot  and  cold  by  turns;  there  was  no  reason  why 
the  thought  should  come  to  him,  but  then  it  did.  Suppose 
something  should  happen,  some  dire  calamity  that  would 
sweep  avi'ay  his  fortune  at  a  blow — the  fortune  which  he 
had  spent  a  lifetime  in  acquiring;  he  writhed  with  agony 
at  the  bare  possibility  of  such  a  thing.  Or  suppose  his  life 
should  be  taken  awaj^ — now  in  its  prime  when  he  was 
just  beginning  to  reap  the  benefits  of  an  acquired  fortune — 
if  he  should  be  found  dead,  in  his  bed,  wir.h  no  more  possi- 
bility of  enjoying  that  for  which  he  had  ventured  so  nmch ; 
these  thoughts  came  often  of  late  and  they  came  always 
at  night  when  he  was  trying  to  fall  into  a  state  of  un- 
consciousness. Lately  he  had  taken  to  reading,  trying  to 
tire  out  eyes  and  brain. 

"What  did  you  say?"  he  asked  abstractedly,  looking 
up  from  his  paper. 

"I  said  I  thought  we  had  better  begin  to  arrange  for 
Dora's  wedding.  Lord  Carnleigh  said  something  to  me 
the  other  day  about  wanting  to  be  married  in  December." 

Her  husband  dropped  his  paper.  "What's  the  use  of 
trying  to  rush  the  thing  so?  The  girl's  young  enough, 
too  young — you  seem  to  be  anxious  to  get  her  off  your 
hands.     If  the  man  cares  anything  for  her  he'll  wait." 

Mrs.  Allene  spread  her  two  plump  white  hands  out 
upon  the  coverlet  and  glanced  at  them  admiringly. 

"My  dear,"  she  said  presently,  "I  think  its  best  to 
follow  the  old  proverb,  and  make  hay  while  the  sun  shines. 


48  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

Dora  has  a  chance  to  make  a  very  brilliant  match  and  in 
her  second  season  too,  and  she  had  better  not  miss  the 
opportunity.  What's  the  use  of  a  girl's  ^Yaiting  until  her 
third  or  fourth  season,  when  people  begin  to  call  her  passe, 
before  she  gets  married?  Then  everybody  says  that  she 
jumped  at  the  cliance,  if  she  accepts  an  offer." 

"Well,  what  if  they  do?  You  are  always  afraid  of 
what  somebody's  going  to  say.  A  man  can't  eat  with  his 
knife  because  somebody  says  he  must  eat  with  his  fork, 
and  he  can't  turn  his  toes  in,  because  somebody  says  he 
must  turn  his  toes  out.  I  tell  you  I  don't  care  ivliat 
'they  say.'  What  right  has  anybody  got  to  lay  down 
laws  for  me  as  to  what's  proper,  any  more  than  I  have  to 
lay  down  laws  for  them?  I  tell  you  I'm  going  to  do  as 
I  please,  and  if  folks  don't  like  it  they  can  look  the  other 
way.'' 

"I  never  saw  such  a  man  as  you  are  in  my  life,  Ed- 
ward. You  have  got  some  of  the  crankiest  notions — 
and  Dora's  just  like  you.  She  isn't  a  bit  like  me.  I 
don't  want  to  get  tbe  girl  off  my  hands,  as  you  say  I  do, 
but  I  think  she'll  be  a  great  deal  happier  when  she  has 
her  own  establishment  anyhow.  She's  an  odd  child,  and 
you  never  can  tell  what  these  eccentric  girls  may  do. 
Besides,  I  think  we  would  fairly  be  flying  in  the  face  of 
Providence  to  pass  by  such  an  offer  as  this.  Girls  don't 
have  an  opportunity  to  marry  a  title  every  day." 

Papa  Allene  grunted.  "Humph !  What  you're  so  set 
on  a  title  for,  I  can't  see.  I  tell  you  a  man  with  a  cool 
half  million  or  so  in  his  own  name  is  worth  all  your 
lords  or  counts  or  whatever  you  call  'em.  Your  blue  blood 
won't  buy  bread  nor  it  won't  pay  debts.  I'd  as  soon  and 
sooner  sec  Dora  married  to  a  bright,  smart  young  fellow, 
with  plenty  of  money,  than  this  I-iord  you  and  she  are 
making  so  much  fuss  about." 

"Oh,  dear  me,  Edward,  did  anybody  ever  hear  such 
nonsense?  Here's  3'our  daughter  going  to  make  the  most 
brilliant  match  of  the  season,  and  you're  trying  to  stand 
in  her  way." 

"V/ho's  trying  to  stand  in  her  way,  I'd  like  to  knowP' 

"Why,  you  are.     Didn't  you  just  say  you'd  rather  see 


A  Bird  in  the  Hand.  49 

her  marry  anyone  else  ?  She  couldn't  do  better.  She  will 
better  her  position  socially,  and  I'm  sure  we  have  money 
enough.  Why  didn't  you  make  all  these  objections  before? 
You  seemed  pleased  enough  when  you  first  heard  of  the 
match.  You  know  you  promised  the  girl  a  fortune  when 
she  married — and  you  can't  go  back  on  your  word." 

"Wellj  who  said  I  was  going  back  on  my  word?  I 
don't  care  anything  about  it.  Only  I  don't  see  why  you're 
so  in  love  with  a  handle  to  a  man's  name.  1  suppose  the 
girl's  making  a  great  match.  I  hear  enough  about  it. 
Lord  knows !  But  there's  no  particular  hurry  about  it  as 
I  can  see.  No  use  of  pushing  her  into  the  cares  of  mar- 
ried life  until  she's  older." 

A  vision  of  the  fresh  girl-face  flitted  before  his  mental 
view.  After  his  hard  selfish  fashion,  there  was  a  good 
deal  of  tenderness  in  his  heart  for  this  daughter  of  his. 
A  vague  sort  of  feeling,  one  of  pity,  came  over  him,  that 
care  or  pain  or  worry  should  ever  come  into  her  young 
life. 

"Edward,"  said  his  wife  presently,  "I  understand  a 
woman's  nature  better  than  you  do.  Girls  of  Dora's 
age  are  apt  to  be  self-willed;  they  don't  know  what's  best 
for  them.  Some  time  Dora  will  thank  me  for  insisting 
upon  an  early  consummation  of  this  marriage.  I  tell  you 
Dora  is  a  very  peculiar  girl."  Mamma  Allene  hesitated 
a  little.  "She  would  run  right  in  the  face  of  her  own  inter- 
ests. If  we  don't  insist  upon  her  marriage  with  Lord 
Carnleigh,  and  tbat  as  soon  as  possible,  she  is  just  as  liable 
as  not,  to  change  her  mind.  In  fact,  Edward,  the  girl 
imagines  she  still  loves  that  young  Porter." 

E.  Gordon  Allene  turned  around  with  an  angry  frown. 
"What  put  such  nonsense  into  your  head?" 

"Never  mind.  I  know  she  likes,  or  thinks  she  likes 
him  yet,  and  that  is  not  a  good  symptom.  Girls  shouldn't 
have  those  morbid  fancies,  especially  headstrong  girls, 
as  they  may  result  in  runaway  matches.  There  is  no  tell- 
ing. Dora  will  be  a  good  deal  better  off  married,  than 
dilly-dallying  around  as  an  engaged  girl.  I  tell  you  I  am 
a  very  far-seeing  woman,  and  an  ounce  of  prevention  is 
worth  a  pound  of  cure." 


50  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

Her  husband  picked  up  his  paper.  "You  know  best, 
I  suppose.  Arrange  everything  to  suit  yourself,  Anna," 
he  said  after  a  pause,  clenching  his  fists  and  speaking  ex- 
citedly, "if  the  girl  ever  presumed  to  run  away  and  marry 
that  fellow,  I"d  disown  her.  She  should  never  set  her 
foot  inside  my  house  again." 

"Now  don't  go  off  at  a  tangent,  Edward,  Dora's  not 
going  to  run  off — she's  going  to  get  married  in  grand 
style.  I  just  tell  you,  Edward,  I  am  going  to  have  a 
wedding  that  everybody  will  remember,"  and  Mamma 
Allene  fell  asleep,  dreaming  of  the  wedding  march  in 
"Lohengrin." 

An  hour  or  so  prior  to  this  conversation,  the  subject  of 
it  sat  in  a  large  arm  chair  before  the  magnificent  mahog- 
any mantelpiece  in  the  drawing  room.  It  was  a  very  beauti- 
ful mantel,  set  with  costly  tiling,  and  adorned  with  ex- 
quisite bits  of  bric-a-brac.  The  brass  andirons  were  mas- 
sive, but  the  glowing  logs  upon  them  did  not  make 
exactly  the  sort  of  fire  one  likes  to  dream  over.  It  was 
all  very  bright  and  charming,  of  course,  but  the  logs  were 
only  "make-believe"  logs,  and  the  fire  was  only  burning 
gas — not  the  sort  of  fire  that  inspires  the  delicate  waking 
fancies  of  an  Ik  Marvel.  Something  of  the  sham  and 
unreality  of  it  all  seemed  to  penetrate  to  the  girl's  soul, 
as  she  gazed  at  it.  It  seemed  like  her  life,  with  plenty  of 
show  and  pomp  and  glitter  but  with  nothing  true  or  real 
about  it.  Her  marriage  would  only  be  on  a  par  with  the 
rest — a  show — a  splurge — for  an  empty  title,  that  all  the 
world  might  gape  open-mouthed. 

"Lord  Carnleigh,"  announced  the  footman,  throwing 
open  the  doors. 

He  bowed  in  a  courtly  way,  handing  her  a  large  bunch 
of  flowers  as  she  rose  to  meet  him. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Lord  Carnleigh,  they  are  lovely,"  sbe 
said,  holding  out  both  hands  in  a  childish  way. 

He  placed  the  roses  in  one  of  her  hands  and  took  the 
other  in  both  of  his. 

"Don't  you  think  you  are  a  bit  formal  with  me?  I  do 
not  pretend  to  know  anything  about  it,  but  I  fancy  that 
young  ladies,  who  are  engaged  to  be  married,  address 


A  Bird  in  the  Hand.  51 

their  future  husbands  in  a  more  familiar  way.  Could 
you  not  be  induced  to  call  me  by  my  first  name?" 

"Let  me  see — it's  Alfred,  isn't  it?"  holding  the  flowers 
very  close  to  her  face. 

"Not  very  flattering  to  my  self-love — that  you  are  not 
sure  about — my  name — I  mean.    Is  it  a  name  you  like?" 

She  smiled  just  a  little.  "I  suppose,  I  could  say  nothing 
in  the  negative  now,  without  disappointing  you." 

He  held  her  hands  a  little  tighter. 

"I  am  more  interested  than  you  are,  you  see.  I  found 
out  your  name  long  ago.  Medora.  It  is  a  very  pretty 
name.     Were  you  named  for  Byron's  heroine?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  do  not  know,  I  am  sure.  I 
trust  I  may  not  have  so  sad  a  fate,"  she  answered  dreamily, 
as  a  picture  of  the  poet's  lovely  Medora  flittered  before 
her  mental  eyes. 

"Well,  my  little  !Medora,  I  wanted  to  have  a  talk  with 
3'ou  about  our  wedding.  Don't  you  think  we  might  be 
married  in  December?" 

A  chill  seemed  to  settle  round  her  heart. 

"So  soon?"  she  asked  in  a  tremulous  tone. 

"Soon?"  he  queried,  bending  towards  her.  "Why,  it 
seems  centuries  to  me;  is  the  prospect  so  displeasing  then?" 

"Oh,  no!"  she  said  hastily.  "I  did  not  mean  that — 
that  is,  you  see — mj  trousseau." 

He  laughed.  "Oh,  I  beg  ^'our  pardon.  I  forgot  that  was 
the  first  consideration,  with  a  woman.  I  really  believe  the 
husband  is  only  a  secondary  thought." 

She  glanced  up  at  him  quickly.  There  was  a  slight 
suspicion  of  irony  in  his  voice;  but  she  could  detect  no 
mockery  in  his  face.    He  was  looking  at  her  very  pleasantly, 

"It  may  hurry  me  a  little,"  she  said  presently,  "but  if 
you  desire  it  very  much,  I  will  ask  mamma." 

"And  mamma  will  say  yes,  I  am  sure." 

The  assurance  in  his  tone  grated  upon  her.  He  was 
so  confident  of  mamma's  acquiescence  in  anything  he 
might  propose;  and  yet — she  could  scarcely  blame  him. 
He  must  know  how  delighted  her  mother  was  at  the  pros- 
pect of  this  match,  and  how  fearful  lest  something  should 
happen,  to  prevent  it,  and  her  daughter  never  bear  a  title. 


52  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

"I  am  very  thoughtless,"  he  said  presently,  leading  her 
to  a  chair  and  drawing  up  another  for  himself,  "1  have 
kept  you  standing  ever  since  my  arrival.  Pray  be  seated, 
Medora,  and  I  shall  try  to  explain  why  I  desire  our  mar- 
riage hastened  a  little.  I  wish  very  much  to  return  to 
England  before  January,  and  I  should  like  to  take  my 
wife  with  me,  as  it  will  be  almost  impossible  for  me  to 
return  to  America  before  spring,  and  that,  my  dear  girl, 
would  be  quite  out  of  the  question.  I  mean  our  waiting 
until  spring  to  be  married.  It's  a  desperately  long  time, 
you  know.  And  then,  I  must  really  plead  guilty  to  au 
anxiety  to  hasten  the  time  when  I  shall  call  you  my 
wife.     Is  not  that,  alone,  sufficient  reason?" 

He  was  polite  and  courteous,  loverlike  to  a  sufficient 
degree,  not  repelling  her  with  too  great  a  familiarity,  and 
yet  she  shuddered  inwardly.  It  was  some  moments  before 
?he  spoke. 

"I  presume  perhaps  a  man  feels  so — a  woman  is  differ- 
ent, you  know — she  is  leaving  home  and  friends" — her 
voice  faltered. 

"To  go  to  her  husband,"  he  answered  gently,  leaning 
forward  and  taking  her  hand  in  his.  For  the  first  time 
since  he  had  known  her,  this  girl  appealed  to  his  better 
nature.  She  was  soon  to  be  his,  and  a  sort  of  vague  de- 
sire came  to  him,  that  she  might  make  a  change  for  the 
better  in  his  life ;  a  sort  of  craving  for  her  love,  a  wish 
that  her  life  with  him  might  be  happy  enough  to  com- 
pensate for  all  she  was  leaving  behind  her.  He  had 
been  associated  but  little  with  women,  except  v/ith  women 
of  a  certain  class,  during  the  later  years  of  his  life.  He 
had  been  a  dissipated  man — his  ideas  of  women  were 
not  of  the  most  exalted.  His  mother  had  died  at  the  birth 
of  his  younger  brother.  His  father,  a  crusty,  gouty,  pro- 
fane old  fellow  had  let  his  sons  bring  up  themselves  as 
best  they  might.  His  social  life  had  been  spent  from. 
early  manhood  at  certain  clubs  where  married  life  was 
held  as  a  condition  little  short  of  deplorable,  where  such 
sentiments  as  these  were  current:  "Any  woman  may  be 
interesting  as  long  as  she  is  not  one's  wife." 


A  Bird  in  the  Hand.  53 

"A  man  of  the  world  is  at  home  everywhere  except 
in  his  own  home." 

"There  are  two  perfect  women — the  one  is  dead,  the 
other  has  not  yet  been  discovered." 

"The  fascinating  vv'oman  always  belongs  to  another 
man.     Tf  you  get  her,  her  fascination  takes  wings." 

"Men  enjoy  clubs  exceedingly,  because  women  are  not 
admissible." 

All  virtuous  women  he  considered  as  belonging  to  one 
of  two  classes,  dolls  and  shrews.  American  girls  he  had 
found  bright  and  entertaining,  but  he  had  supposed  it 
would  be  the  same  with  this  woman  when  she  became 
his  wife.  She  v/ould  be  uninteresting  enough  then,  prob- 
ably. He  had  been  v.'cll  aware  that  this  girl  had  been 
thrown  at  his  head,  that  she  wished  to  purchase  his  title, 
and  he  was  quite  sure  that  he  wanted,  in  fact,  that  he  very 
much  needed  her  money.  He  had  not  been  very  desper- 
ately in  love  with  the  girl  herself.  Her  beauty  appealed 
to  him,  and  he  admired  her  sprightliness  and  naivete; 
in  fact,  she  had  interested  him  more  than  any  woman  had 
done  for  a  long  time.  This  man,  bad  as  he  was,  was 
capable  of  loving  a  woman  with  an  intensity  of  which  he 
himself  was  not  aware — an  intensity  that  would  be  the 
making  or  the  marring  of  his  whole  life.  Something  of 
that  love  came  over  him  now.  His  better  impulses  seemed 
fctirred  within  him.  The  thought  of  this  girl's  innocence 
and  beauty  and  of  his  own  unworthiness  came  over  him. 
A  desire,  scarcely  expressed  even  in  his  own  mind,  that  he 
might  become  a  better  man. 

"And  would  not  a  husband's  love  be  enough  to  make 
you  content  ?"  he  asked,  leaning  forward  and  looking  into 
her  face,  then  seeing  that  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  he 
lifted  her  from  her  chair  to  his  arms  and  kissed  her  pas- 
sionately, intensely  again  and  again.  "Medora,  my  little 
darling,  I  love  you." 

Long  after  he  had  gone  she  felt  the  burning  of  his 
kisses  against  her  cheek.  A  feeling  of  dread  was  upon 
her.  She  was  not  a  girl  to  allow  such  caresses  lightly, 
and  these  kisses  seemed  to  bind  her  to  this  man,  body  and 
Eoul, 


54  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A   BACHELOR   DINNER.   . 

Lord  Carnleigh  was  giving  a  farewell  bachelor  din- 
ner  at   one   of   the   private   dining   rooms   of   the   

hotel. 

As  he  had  surmised,  Mrs.  Allene,  after  a  pretty  show 
of  hesitation,  agreed  to  allow  her  daughter  to  be  married 
in  December,  and  he  determined  to  celebrate  his  fare- 
well to  bachelorhood  in  a  befitting  manner,  and  also  to 
return  the  many  obligations  under  which  he  considered 
himself  to  the  several  gentlem.en  who  had  endeavored  to 
make  his  stay  in  the  West  enjoyable. 

There  was  a  party  of  ten  gentlemen,  all  attired  in 
evening  dress,  and  all  bent  upon  making  a  night  of  it. 

Young  Allene  was  there  to  drink  a  toast  to  his  pretty 
sister's  happiness.  Jack  Strainer,  Gus  Reacher,  Bartley 
Brincoe,  Tony  Foyer,  Wellington  Frieze — all  came  to 
drink  the  health  of  the  charming  bride-elect.  There  was 
handsome  Courtney  Barnes,  who  came  because  he  never 
missed  any  opportunity  of  going  where  there  was  to  be 
a  "time."  And  there  were  several  others  who  came  in- 
duced by  the  same  worthy  motive. 

There  was  a  course  dinner,  there  were  flowers,  there 
was  a  mandolin  orchestra,  and  there  was  wine — plenty  of 
it — besides  brandy  and  punch. 

'*You  should  have  seen  old  Dilsingham  this  afternoon," 
Gus  Reacher  was  saying,  holding  a  glass  of  wine  on  a 


A  Bachelor  Dinner.  55 

level  with  his  eyes.  "I  went  over  to  the  Club  and  there 
sat  Dilsingham  playing  cards  as  usual.  It  was  a  jack- 
pot. Someone  opened  it.  Everybody  stayed;  betting 
ran  high,  and  finally  everybody  dropped  out  but  Ashbur- 
ton  and  Dilsingham.  They  made  their  bets  so  boldly, 
that  I  thought  there  must  surely  be  a  full  hand  or  fours. 
Finally  Ashburton  laid  down,  and  Dilsingham  showed  a 
pair  of  fours  with  great  relish.  My!  but  Ashburton 
was  mad.  Pie  had  been  bluffing  all  the  time,  but  he  had 
a  pair  of  fives." 

There  was  a  general  laugh. 

''Dilsingham  will  relish  that  immensely.  He'll  never 
be  tired  of  telling  about  it,"  said  Jack  Strainer.  "Ash- 
burton is  so  'chilly'  anyhow.  He  holds  on  to  his  checks 
like  grim  death,  and  there's  no  getting  them  away  gen- 
erally, when  he  once  gets  them." 

"Yes,  do  you  remember  what  Porter  senior  used  to 
call  him?"  asked  Bartley  Brincoe.  "The  Dime  Savings 
Bank !  Porter  was  a  bright  fellow.  Do  you  remember 
he  used  to  have  a  name  for  everybody  at  the  Club  ?  Percy 
Sharp  he  called  'Papa's  boy.'  Tony,  I  believe  he  used 
to  call  you  'the  ladies  delight.'  Big  Arthur  Elmsly  he 
called  'John  L.  Sullivan,'  and  Old  Bob  Chillingly, 
the  'North  Pole,'  because  he  was  so  cold  and  chilly. 
Don't  you  remember  he  used  to  look  at  the  thermometer, 
whenever  Chillingly  came  into  the  Club,  and  declare  that 
the  mercury  had  fallen  ten  degrees?" 

"That  makes  me  think  of  a  good  story  he  used  to  tell 
on  Ashburton,"  said  Courtney  Barnes,  laughing.  "He 
said  they  were  going  along  State  Street  one  day,  when 
up  came  a  little  beggar  and  ran  along  beside  Ashburton 
chattering  all  the  way,  'Please,  sir,  won't  you  gimme  a 
penny,  ma's  sick;  pa's  leg's  broke,  ain't  no  money  in  the 
house  an'  nothin'  to  eat,'  and  so  on.  Instead  of  Ashbur- 
ton's  either  giving  him  a  dime,  or  telling  him  to  move 
on,  he  stopped,  looked  at  the  little  fellow  and  said: 
'Pa's  leg's  broke,  eh  ?  What  broke  it  ?'  The  boy  was  de- 
lighted. Here  was  a  sympathizer.  Visions  of  feasts  to 
come  rushed  into  his  mind.  'Please,  sir,  he  fell  off  the 
top  of  a  shed,  so  he  did.' ,  Ashburton  looked  at  him  a 


56  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

moment  sternly.  'Well,  if  he'd  never  got  upon  that  shed, 
he'd  never  have  broken  his  leg,  do  you  hear?'  and  on  he 
went,  leaving  the  boy  gazing  after  him  in  amazement." 

"Very  philosophical,"  said  Gus  Eeacher.  "Well,  Por- 
ter was  a  bright  fellow.  So  is  Will,  too.  I'd  like  to  see 
him  get  along  better." 

Young  Allene  was  growing  restless.  The  Porters,  es- 
pecially young  Will,  were  not  pleasant  topics  of  con- 
versation to  him.  Lord  Carnleigh  might  get  an  inkling 
of  Dora's   foolish  infatuation. 

"Did  you  hear,"  he  asked,  by  way  of  making  a  change 
in  the  conversation,  "that  the  little  Trenton  had  gone  on 
the  stage?  That's  the  typewriter  you  thought  so  pretty," 
turning  to  Lord  Carnleigh. 

"Oh,  is  that  so?  Where  does  she  play?  I  must  go 
to  see  her." 

"At  the  Chicago  Opera,  in  the  new  spectacular.  She's 
in  the  ballet,"  put  in  Tony  Foyer  quickly. 

There  was  a  prolonged  shout. 

"Tony  knows,  of  course,"  laughed  Wellington  Frieze. 

Tony  fired  up  angrily.  "I  sat  in  a  box  the  other  night, 
and  happened  to  see  her." 

"Happened?  Oh,  Tony,  that's  too  bad.  You  mean 
she  was  to  be  in  the  ballet,  and  you  happened  to  get  a 
box,  eh?" 

Tony  was  obliged  to  succumb.  "Well,  what  of  it?  I 
tell  you  she's  a  daisy.  She's  a  flirt,  and  she  looked  up  at 
our  box  a  dozen  times  during  the  evening." 

Another  shout  greeted  him. 

"Tony's  in  love  again.  We'll  have  another  scandal, 
if  you  don't  look  out,"  said  Gus  Eeacher. 

"Here's  to  your  inamorata,"  cried  Jack  Strainer, 
jumping  up  and  waving  his  glass  of  champagne  aloft. 

" 3Iay  she  long  he  the  rage. 
In  tights  upon  the  stage. 
This  bright-eyed  ballet  girl. 

(Brow  do  I  improvise?" 
iThe  glasses  clinked  merrily.    The  wine  was  beginning 


A  Bachelor  Dinner.  57 

to  take  effect.  "Here's  to  our  host,  the  expectant  bride- 
groom." 

The  cheers  rang  loudly  and  still  louder,  when  Welling- 
ton Frieze  cried  out  in  a  thick  voice,  "Here's  to  the  pret- 
tiest woman  in  Chicago — the  bride-elect." 

Poor  little  bride !  She  would  have  shrunk  away  in 
horror  from  this  noisy  clamor.  She  would  have  closed 
her  eyes  and  ears  before  these  loud  shouts,  as  her  name 
resounded  again  and  again. 

"A  song — a  song,"  called  someone.  "Allene,  give  us 
a  song." 

Allene's  pleasant  tenor  rang  clearly  through  the  room. 
After  a  time  the  merry-making  grew  wilder  and  wilder. 
Glasses  went  crashing  into  the  fireplace.  Wine  was 
spilled  over  the  table  cloth,  and  the  pretty  Dora's  ears, 
I  fear,  would  have  tingled,  could  she  have  heard  her 
name  so  freely  used.  Lord  Carnleigli's  brain  was  too 
escited  with  wine  to  grasp  any  idea  of  the  impropriety 
of  this  free  use  of  his  future  wife's  name.  One  by  one 
the  diners  stumbled  to  their  feet,  and  stumbled  home. 
Young  Allene  vras  carried  to  his  coupe,  and  the  future 
bridegroom  was  assisted  to  a  coach  by  his  valet,  not  just 
in  the  condition  he  would  have  liked  his  little  bride  to 
see  him. 


While  Courtney  Barnes  was  enjoying  himself  at  the 
bachelor  dinner,  ]\Irs.  Courtney  Barnes  was  giving  an 
informal  reception  to  her  friends.  Her  beautiful  home 
was  thrown  open  to  the  favored  few,  and  she  was  moving 
amongst  them  with  the  ease  and  grace  which  always  made 
her  a  conspicuous  figure  in  any  company  of  people. 
Ever5rthing  about  her  showed  taste  and  refinement.  There 
was  none  of  that  glaring  newness  of  all  things  that  im- 
pressed one  in  the  Allene  mansion.  The  choice  pictures 
and  bits  of  bric-a-brac  picked  up  here  and  there  in 
Europe,  the  arrangement  of  everything,  showed  a  re- 
fined, artistic  taste.  The  select  few  made  quite  a  crush  of 
people,  when  they  were  all  together.  They  crushed  in, 
greeted  their  hostess,  chatted  small  talk  awhile,  ate  an 


58  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

ice,  drank  champagne  punch  and  crushed  out.  Mrs.  Barnes 
wore  a  mauve  velvet  dress  with  violets  in  her  hair.  She 
was  assisted  by  the  much-talked-of  future  bride,  who 
looked  like  a  lovely  flower  in  a  rose-colored  silk,  covered 
with  pink  tulle  and  with  a  large  bunch  of  pink  and  white 
chrysanthemums,  tied  with  long  loops  of  red  ribbon,  in 
her  hand.  Too  lovely  a  flower  she  looked,  to  be  plucked 
by  the  hand  of  the  man  who  sat  drinking  glass  after 
glass  of  liquor,  to  her  health  and  future  happiness. 

"I  am  going  to  keep  you  with  me  to-night,  Dora," 
Mrs.  Barnes  whispered  as  the  guests  began  to  disperse. 
She  knew  that  after  the  bachelor  dinner,  she  would  not 
see  her  husband  for  several  days. 

"Very  well.  Mamma,  I  am  going  to  stay  here  to- 
night." 

Mamma  Allene  smiled  sweetly.  "Just  as  you  choose, 
my  dear.     Take  care  of  her,  Helen." 

"Mrs.  Barnes,  now  that  you  are  less  busily  engaged, 
I  should  be  exceedingly  obliged  to  you,  if  you  would 
allow  me  to  monopolize  a  moment  or  two  of  your  time." 

It  was  a  tall  clerical-looking  man  who  spoke,  the  cele- 
brated Dr.  Fincastle,  who  had  been  induced  to  take 
charge  of  a  church  in  Chicago,  although,  as  the  papers 
said,  his  ISTew  York  church  was  greatly  distressed  at 
having  to  part  with  so  learned  and  popular  a  man.  How- 
ever, the  learned  doctor  after  much  earnest  meditation, 
felt  it  his  duty  to  accept  the  call  to  the  Chicago  church. 
It  was  not  stated  in  the  papers  as  to  whether  the  offer  of 
an  extra  three  thousand  a  year  had  anything  to  do  with 
influencing  the  learned  doctor  in  his  decision  or  not.  The 
church  over  which  he  presided  was  too  large  to  admit  of 
his  attending  to  his  pastoral  duties  singly,  so  a  colleague 
was  employed  to  assist  him.  It  seemed  a  little  odd,  how- 
ever, that,  although  the  reverend  gentleman  could  attend 
to  only  half  of  his  congregation,  it  always  was  the  wealth- 
ier and  more  influential  half  to  which  he  gave  his  un- 
divided attention.  To  the  colleague,  a  simple-hearted 
Christian  man,  were  left  the  less  pleasant  and  more  ar- 
duous duties.  If  there  happened  to  be  illness  in  the  Al- 
lene mansion,  the  reverend  doctor  was  there  upon  verj 


A  Bachelor   Dinner.  59 

short  notice,  ready  to  give  comfort  and  consolation,  if 
need  be;  but  if  any  lesser  personages,  who  sat  in  less  ex- 
pensive pews,  who  appeared  in  less  costly  attire,  happened 
to  fall  ill  by  the  wayside,  upon  his  colleague  devolved  the 
necessary  prayers  arid  supplications.  He  was  very  popu- 
lar among  the  wealthier  portion  of  his  congregation  and 
was  invited  out,  wined,  dined,  and  feted  to  a  great  extent. 
Mrs.  Barnes  looked  up  with  a  gracious  smile. 

"Certainly,  Doctor.     What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"Well,  my  dear  Mrs.  Barnes,  perhaps  this  is  not  the 
place  to  annoy  you  with  the  matter,  but  I  am  so  anxious 
to  have  you  take  an  extra  interest  in  the  affair,  you  see;" 
the  doctor  placed  the  tips  of  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand 
against  the  tips  of  the  fingers  of  his  left,  speaking  in  his 
slow,  deliberate  way.  "I  am  very  much  interested  in  the 
arranging  for  an  entertainment  at  the  church — the  proceeds 
to  go  to  the  cause  of  temperance.  Intemperance  is,  you 
know,  gaining  a  fearful  hold  upon  our  lower  classes,  and 
a  number  of  poor  families  cursed  with  drunken  husbands 
and  fathers  have  been  brought  to  my  notice  lately.  I 
have  a  list  of  a  number  of  such  families,  and  we  shall 
donate  what  is  made  from  the  entertainment  to  them. 
There  has  been  a  move  in  this  direction  lately,  in  a  num- 
ber of  the  churches,  and  we  do  not  wish  to  seem  behind- 
hand. I  know  you  have  a  great  many  social  engagements, 
and  that  your  hands  are  quite  full  all  the  time,  but  you  are 
so  excellent  a  hand  to  manage  things  of  this  kind  in  a 
charming,  graceful  manner,  that  I  decided  to  annoy  you 
about  the  matter." 

Mrs.  Barnes  lifted  her  fan.  "Oh,  Doctor,  Doctor,  I 
fear  you  are  growing  to  be  a  flatterer,"  she  said  gaily. 

"ISTot  at  all,  my  dear  madam.  I  am  only  telling  you 
facts.  Will  you  think  the  matter  over,  and  see  if  you 
can  devise  something  new  in  the  way  of  entertainment." 

"I  shall  be  delighted  to  assist  you  in  any  way.  Let  me 
see — I  shall  attend  to  it  the  first  of  next  week.  Will 
that  be  soon  enough." 

The  doctor  bowed.  "Certainly,  thank  you.  Suit  your 
own  time  and  convenience,  Mrs.  Barnes.  My  wife  de- 
sired to  be  remembered  to  you  in  her  letter." 


6o  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

"Very  good  of  her  indeed.  Send  my  kindest  regards 
when  you  write.     How  is  she  enjoying  herself?" 

"Excellently.  She  finds  New  Orleans  charming  at  this 
season.  But  I  must  make  my  adieus — by  the  way,  that 
was  delightful  wine  you  served  to  us  at  dinner  last 
night." 

"I  am  glad  you  enjoyed  it.  I  do  myself,  very  much. 
It  is  a  rare  old  French  wine,  Mr.  Barnes  picked  up  some- 
where." 

"It  was  most  delightful.  I  wish  to  thank  you  for  a 
very  enjoyable  evening.     Good  night." 

They  drifted  away  one  by  one ;  finally  the  last  guest 
was  gone,  the  last  carriage  had  rolled  away,  and  Helen 
Barnes  sank  wearily  into  a  chair.  "Another  evening  over, 
thank  goodness!" 

Dora  drew  a  stool  to  her  feet  and  laid  her  soft  hand 
upon  her  friend's.  "I  think  I  am  beginning  to  feel  that 
way  too,"  she  said  softly.  "I  used  to  enjoy  myself  my  first 
season,  but  somehow  or  other  I  get  tired  of  everything 
before  it's  half  over  now." 

Mrs.  Barnes  pressed  her  small  hand  within  her  own. 
"You  must  not  talk  that  way,  Dora.  It  will  do  for  an 
older  woman  like  myself,  but  vou  are  too  young  to  feel 
so." 

Dora  pursed  up  her  lips,  and  nodded  her  head  in  a  de- 
termined way.     "I  feel  that  way  anyhow." 

"Dora  dear,  I  am  worried  about  you.  I  do  not  wish 
to  be  intrusive — but  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  happy." 

Dora's  underlip  began  to  quiver.  "Well,  I'm  not — so 
there !"  she  said  sharpl}^  "but  what's  the  difference  ?  They 
won't  let  me  marry  the  man  I  love,  and  they  are  deter- 
mined I  shall  marry  the  man  I  don't  love,  and  I  am 
getting  so  I  don't  care  what  I  do." 

Mrs.  Barnes  pressed  Dora's  hand  again  and  again.  She 
felt  so  sorry  for  the  girl — but  she  could  say  nothing.  She 
did  not  feel  it  was  right  to  influence  Dora  against  her 
parents'  wishes — she  knew  what  this  marriage  meant  to 
Mrs.  Allene.  It  was  too  late  to  undo  it,  now — but  she 
hated  to  see  the  dear  girl  unhappy. 

^TVIamma's  heart  is  set  upon  this  marriage,"  said  Dora, 


A  Bachelor   Dinner.  6i 

prosently.  "She  would  never  forgive  me  if  I  did  any- 
thing to  prevent  it.  She  says  lots  of  folks  who  don't  care 
much  for  one  another,  marry,  settle  down  and  are  just 
as  contented  as  other  people.  And  she  says,  too,  there  are 
plenty  of  people  who  imagine  they  are  dreadfully  in  love 
with  one  another,  when  they  marry,  who  soon  get  tired 
and  hate  one  another  cordially.  I  don't  know,  I  am  sure 
— T  suppose  I  might  make  a  mistake  either  way.  I  don't 
care;  anyhow  I  presume,"  looking  up  with  a  pitiful  sort 
of  a  smile,  "it  will  be  all  the  same  a  hundred  years 
hence." 

Her  hopeless  tone  went  to  the  older  woman's  heart. 
Mrs.  Barnes  looked  up  at  the  massive  library  ceiling.  It 
was  panelled  in  oak,  heavily  carved.  As  she  looked,  the 
designs  seemed  to  change  into  pictures  of  her  own  life. 
She  saw  herself  as  she  had  looked  that  night  that  he  had 
proposed  to  her.  They  were  driving  home  from  a  party 
— she  remembered  the  very  dress  she  wore,  a  pale  blue 
lustreless  silk,  trimmed  with  blue  ostrich  plumes,  because 
he  had  complimented  her  upon  it  and  upon  her  appearance. 
Every  time  she  turned  towards  him  that  evening  she  saw 
his  eyes  resting  upon  her  tenderly. 

When  his  carriage  was  called  and  the  door  had  closed 
upon  them,  she  remembered  how  her  heart  had  fluttered 
like  a  frightened  bird,  for  she  felt  that  he  had  something 
to  say  to  her.  Then  she  remembered  how  her  opera  cloak 
had  slipped  down  from  her  shoulders,  and  how  when  lean- 
ing forward  to  pull  it  about  her,  and  touching  by  acci- 
dent the  cool  flesh  of  her  arm,  he  had  suddenly  printed  a 
burning  kiss  upon  it;  and  then  how  he  had  been  penitent 
and  begged  her  pardon,  when  she  had  seemed  angry;  and 
then  after  all,  how  he  had  taken  her  in  his  strong  arms 
and  kissed  her  again  and  again,  begging  her  to  be  his 
wife,  and  not  to  say  him  nay.  He  was  such  a  big  broad- 
shouldered,  handsome  fellow — and  he  had  loved  her  so. 
Not  one  thought  had  she  had  of  his  money,  or  that  he  was 
considered  the  "catch  of  the  season" — she  had  really  loved 
him.  Then  the  quaint  designs  seemed  to  expand  and 
broaden — she  saw  a  crowded  church — she  heard  the 
preacher's  solemn  voice — "love,  honor  and  cherish,  until 


62  A  Girl  of  Chlcaofo. 


is 


death  do  you  part."  She  saw  the  "sea  of  upturned  faces," 
before  which  her  eyes  fell  as  they  turned  from  the  altar. 
She  heard  her  husband's  voice  as  they  drove  away,  "My 
precious,  precious  wife."  She  remembered  their  happy 
honeymoon — the  first  months  of  their  married  life.  And 
then  it  all  began  to  change;  they  began  to  drift  apart. 
He  stayed  away  night  after  night.  She  had  upbraided 
him  at  first  and  then  she  had  treated  him  with  cold  in- 
difference. How  long  it  had  been  since  their  lips  had 
met  in  a  kiss !  How  her  heart  ached,  when  she  thought 
of  it !  Yes,  marriage  was  a  lottery.  Dora  was  right. 
You  might  marry  without  love  and  be  happy,  and  you 
might  marry  for  love  and  be  wretched. 

She  leaned  forward  and  drew  the  girl  to  her,  the  tears 
falling  upon  Dora's  bright  hair.  "Poor  little  girl!"  she 
said.  "Somehow  life  is  sadly  warped  and  twisted  for  us 
both." 


Lord  Cornleigh.  63 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

LORD    CAKNLEIGH. 

"Mischief,  thou  art  afoot." — Julius  CcBsar. 
"The  great  question  in  life,  is  the  suffering  we  cause." 

It  was  a  gloomy  November  morning;  a  drizzling  rain 
was  failing  and  a  sort  of  penetrating  chill  was  in  the  air. 
The  hackmen  and  teamsters,  v/aiting  about  the  Lake  Shore 
depot  buttoned  their  coats  more  closely  around  them, 
and  shook  their  shoulders  now  and  then,  as  if  to  throw 
off  the  gathering  dampness.  The  few  passengers  about 
the  waiting  rooms  looked  utterly  dejected,  and  even  the 
railway  ofiicials  seemed  affected  by  the  prevading  gloom, 
and  took  on  an  extra  tone  of  gruffness  and  ill-humor.  It 
was  the  sort  of  morning  that  made  mothers,  waiting  for 
out-going  trains,  disposed  to  be  cross,  children  unreason- 
able and  fathers  find  that  a  family  to  buy  tickets  for  and 
settle  into  seats,  was  a  burden  too  great  to  be  borne.  In 
fact  Mother  Nature  had  wakened  up  terribly  out  of  sorts, 
and  her  bad  humor  affected  her  whole  human  family. 
There  was  not  the  usual  lively  bustle  and  commotion, 
the  hurrying  to  and  fro  of  eager  passengers.  Everybody 
moved  about  in  a  dispirited  sort  of  way.  Still  the  faces 
of  the  depot  loungers  and  even  of  the  ofiicials  themselves 
brightened  a  little,  as  the  early  New  York  and  Boston  Ex- 
press came  lumbering  in.  Among  the  passengers  who 
alighted  was  a  tall,  broad-shouldered  gentleman,  who, 
from  his  cast  of  features  and  ruddy  complexion,  appeared 


64  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

to  be  an  Englishman,  and  from  his  black  broadcloth  suit 
with  long  coat  and  high-cut  vest,  that  buttoned  to  his 
throat,  showing  just  a  bit  of  white  linen  above,  was  pre- 
sumably a  clergyman.  He  carried  a  great-coat  over  his 
arm,  a  light  leather  satchel  and  tightly  rolled  silk  um- 
brella in  his  hand  and  glanced  about  him  in  that  quick 
sort  of  way,  that  betokened  an  interest  in  everything.  His 
appearance  at  the  eastern  entrance  of  the  depot  was 
greeted  with  the  usual  cries  of  importunate  hackmen: 
''Carriage,  sir."  "Hack,  sir."  "This  way  for  the  Leland 
Hotel,  sir."  Stepping  into  a  cab  he  called  out  "Hotel 
Richelieu,"  drew  the  door  shut,  resigning  himself  to  the 
tender  mercies  of  a  Chicago  Jehu. 


An  hour  later  Lord  Carnleigh  rolled  over  wearily  in 
bed,  as  a  light  knock  at  the  outer  door  of  his  apartments 
at  the  Hotel  Eichelieu,  disturbed  his  slumbers.  He  was 
trying  to  sleep  off  the  effects  of  his  bachelor  dinner,  and 
the  effort  did  not  tend  to  sweeten  his  tem.per. 

"Briggs,"  he  called  out  sharply  to  his  valet,  "who  the 
devil  is  that,  and  what  the  devil  do  they  want?" 

Briggs  gave  an  anxious,  apologetic  cough.  "Please, 
sir,  it's,  it's " 

"It's  I,  Alfred,"  interrupted  a  gentleman  coming  into 
the  room. 

Lord  Carnleigh  raised  himself  upon  his  elbow. 
"Henry!"  he  exclaimed  in  an  astonished  tone,  "what  the 
deuce  brings  you  here?" 

Henry  came  to  the  bedside.  "You  do  not  seem  very 
glad  to  see  me,"  holding  out  his  hand. 

Lord  Carnleigh  grasped  the  outstretched  hand.  He  had 
a  sort  of  brotherly  regard  for  this  man,  but  he  did  not 
understand  him.  They  were  wholly  uncongenial.  This 
younger  brother  had  been  converted  in  a  stirring  religious 
revival,  while  in  Oxford,  and  upon  leaving  school  had  en- 
tered the  ministry.  He  was  now  the  pastor  of  a  large 
church  of  "Dissenters"  (as  the  Londoners  call  all  denom- 
inations outside  of  the  Established  Church).  His  life  was 
spent  largely  among  the  poor  of  London,  among  whom  his 


Lord  Carnleigh.  65 

presence  was  ever  welcome,  and  his  name  revered  and  be- 
loved. There  was  a  strong  resemblance  between  the  two 
brothers,  as  they  were  brought  thus  face  to  face,  but  the 
elder  brother's  dissipation  had  destroyed  the  shapely  con- 
tour of  his  face,  while  the  nobility  of  the  younger  brother's 
life  shone  in  his  every  feature. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you,  old  fellow,"  Lord  Carnleigh  said, 
after  looking  at  him  for  some  minutes,  "but  I'm  deucedly 
surprised.    Briggs,  bring  a  chair." 

"Thank  you."  Henry  seated  himself  near  the  bed.  "I 
came  to  see  you  about  a  private  matter,"  he  said,  glancing 
significantly  at  the  valet. 

Lord  Carnleigh  understood  the  look. 

"Briggs,  bring  me  the  brandy,  some  water  too,  put 
them  on  the  table  here.  You  are  dismissed  until  I  ring 
for  you." 

The  clergyman  crossed  one  leg  over  the  other,  and  set- 
tled back  in  his  chair,  when  the  servant  closed  the  door 
behind  him.  Lord  Carnleigh  looked  at  his  brother  curi- 
ously. What  could  his  errand  be?  Why  had  he  come 
all  the  way  to  America  to  transact  it  ?    It  was  very  strange. 

"Alfred,  I  hear  you  are  to  be  married  soon — very  soon 
— am  I  right  ?"  he  asked  in  a  low  but  steady  tone, 

"Yes,  I  am.  What  of  it?  You  did  not  expect  me  to 
write  you  of  it,  did  you?  I  thought  you  knew  me  well 
enough  to  know  I  am  not  the  sort  of  man  who  gives  an 
account,  to  anyhody,  of  his  sayings  and  doings." 

"I  thought  I  knew  you  well  enough,  Alfred,  to  think 
you  were  not  the  sort  of  man  to  marry  an  innocent  girl, 
when  you  already  have  a  wife  living." 

Lord  Carnleigh  sprang  halfway  out  of  bed. 

"My  God,  man!     What  are  you  talking  about?" 

Henry  met  his  look  unflinchingly. 

"Five  years  ago,  Alfred,  you  married  a  beautiful  girl, 
the  daughter  of  an  English  clergyman.  You  married  this 
girl  under  an  assumed  name,  supposing  such  a  marriage 
not  to  be  valid.  There  was  one  witness  to  this  marriage, 
a  man  by  the  name  of  Allan  Tremaine " 

Lord  Carnleigh  grasped  the  bedclothes.  "Who  is  dead," 
he  said  in  a  hoarse,  choking  voice. 


66  A  Girl  of  Chlcasro. 


t>' 


"Who  is  living.  lie  was  not  drowned,  as  you  supposed 
him  to  he;  he  was  shipwrecked.  The  awful  experience 
brought  him  to  a  realization  of  his  condition  before  God. 
He  embraced  religion,  and  is  now  an  active  worker  in  the 
church  with  which  I  am  associated.  He  heard  of  your 
approaching  marriage,  and  came  to  me  with  the  story." 

"The  lie,  you  mean,"  Lord  Carnleigh  cried  excitedly. 
"I  tell  you  I  was  never  lawfully  married  to  the  girl — we 
had  a  mock  marriage — Tremaine  got  some  fellow  to  play 
the  part  of  a  priest " 

"Alfred,  the  man  v/ho  as  you  thought  played  the  part 
of  priest,  was  a  man  of  God — a  man  legally  authorized 
to  join  hands  in  vrcdlock.  Tremaine  bore  a  grudge  against 
you,  and  took  this  method  to  wreak  his  vengeance.  He  con- 
fessed it  all  to  me." 

Lord  Carnleigh  seized  the  brandy  bottle  and  conveyed 
it  tremblingly  to  his  lips.  "And  you  believe  this  dam- 
nable lie,"  he  said,  shivering  the  glass  into  a  thousand 
pieces  against  the  grate,  "and  you  follow  your  brother  to 
America  with  this  cock-and-bull  story  to  spoil  his  reputa- 
tion and  wreck  his  life,  you  canting " 

Henry  raised  his  hand.  "Don"t  say  things  you  will  be 
sorry  for  afLer  awhile,  my  brother.  I  did  not  come  here 
to  taunt  you,  I  came  to  save  3^ou  from  yourself — to  save 
the  girl  you  are  about  to  marry.  I  could  not  believe  the 
story  at  first — I  know" — as  Alfred  started  to  speak,  "Tre- 
maine told  me  of  your  condition  at  the  time  of  this  mar- 
riage— I  know  you  would  never  have  wronged  the  girl  so 
cruelly,  if  you  had  not  been  under  the  influence  of  liquor 
at  the  time.  I  went  with  Tremaine  to  Hillsboro  where 
this  v.'ornan,  your  wife,  lives.  She  is  under  a  ban.  The 
village  people  do  not  believe  in  her  marriage.  She  has 
a  child,  a  beautiful  boy,  three  years  of  age " 

Lord  Carnleigh  fell  laack  among  the  pillows  and  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands.  "My  God !  I  did  not  know  of  the 
child !" 

"A  boy,"  continued  Henry,  "so  like  that  painting  of 
yourself  when  near  his  age,  that  hangs  in  the  gallery  at 
Winfield  Hall,  that  I  choked  with  emotion  and  could  not 
speak  when  I  saw  hira.     This  girl,  your  wife,  is  not  ua- 


Lord  Carnlelgh.  67 

worthy  any  man's  love,  Alfred.  How  could  you  tire  of 
her  so  soon?  She  is  gentle,  refined,  well  educated,  but 
she  is  a  very  tigress  where  her  boy  is  concerned.  Some- 
time ago  she  found  out  your  true  name,  and  determined 
to  fight  for  her  boy's  place  and  share  in  your  rights. 
When  she  found  out  who  I  was,  she  fell  on  her  knees  be- 
fore me,  and  pleaded  with  me  to  intercede  with  you,  for 
her  boy's  sake.  She  told  me  she  would  go  away  and 
never  see  either  of  you  again,  if  you  would  but  acknowledge 
the  boy  as  your  son.  What  could  I  do,  my  brother?  I 
did  not  tell  her  of  your  intended  marriage,  but  I  promised 
to  find  you  and  I  came  to  you  immediately." 

The  elder  brother  groaned.  "Heaven  have  mercy  upon 
me.     What  shall  I  do?" 

"Do?  There  is  only  one  thing  to  do.  Come  back  to 
England  and  acknov.dedge  this  woman  as  your  wife." 

Lord  Carnleigh  turned  away  with  an  angry  gesture. 
"But  my  name — my  reputation — my  intended  marriage." 

"I'm  sorr}^  deeply  sorry  for  you — for  this  other  young 
girl — but  before  God  there  is  but  one  thing  for  you  to 
do.  This  girl  may  feel  shame,  mortification,  anger,  but 
this  other  Avoman  is  your  wife.  Slie  has  a  child.  Her 
claims  upon  you  are  double.  God  has  denied  me  children. 
Oh,  my  brother,  if  I  had  a  boy  like  that  beautiful  boy  of 
yours,  to  look  up  into  my  face  and  call  me  father,  I  would 
brave  shame,  torture,  even  death  itself,  for  his  dear  sake, 
I  will  go  to  the  girl  you  intend  to  marry,  or  you  can  go  to 
her — if  she  is  a  true  woman,  she  can  but  release  you  from 
your  engagement.  She  can  but  feel  there  is  only  one 
right  way  out  of  it  all.  Oh,  my  brother,  turn  to  God, 
reform  your  life.  There  is  a  happy,  noble  manhood  be- 
fore you  yet.  You  have  too  many  good  qualities  to  throw 
thcra  all  away  in  riotous  living.  AcknoAvledge  this  woman 
as  your  Avife,  take  this  beautiful  boy  to  your  heart — live 
an  upright  life,  as  an  example  for  him.  God  may  grant 
you  other  children,  bring  them  up  in  the  fear  of  the  Lord 
and  there  will  be  happiness  in  store  for  you  yet.  l\ry  dear 
brother,"  he  clasped  his  brother's  hand  in  both  his  own, 
"will  you  do  what  is  right  in  this  thing  ?" 


68  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

Lord  Camleigh  shook  like  a  leaf.  "I  will  go  Home  witK 
you,"  he  said  in  a  husk}'  voice. 

"Thank  God."  The  younger  brother  fell  upon  his 
knees,  murmuring  a  prayer. 


An  Afternoon  Tea.  69 


CHAPTER  IX. 

AN    AFTERlSrOOlSr    TEA. 

Of  all  the  entertainments  under  the  sun,  an  afternoon 
tea  is  the  one  which  appeals  the  most  directly  to  a  woman's 
heart.  True,  as  a  rule  there  is  a  dearth  of  men,  rather 
a  calamity,  of  course,  but  then  each  lady  has  in  turn  an 
opportunity  to  display,  when  she  acts  as  hostess,  that  most 
ravishing  of  all  feminine  toilets,  the  tea-gown.  What 
pretty  woman  is  ever  so  pretty  as  when  attired  in  one  of 
these  clinging  gowns,  that  make  of  her  a  very  picture  of 
grace  and  beauty !  And  the  bits  of  gossip  that  are  in- 
dulged in  over  a  cup  of  tea !  No  beverage  so  conducive 
to  an  interchange  of  confidences  between  friends.  Such 
delightfully  informal  teas  as  Mrs.  Courtney  Barnes  al- 
ways gave — at  least  so  said  the  ladies  who  attended  them. 
Mrs,  Barnes  was  always  a  leader  and  having  grown  tired 
of  the  formal  teas,  served  in  English  style,  which  had 
reall}^  lost  their  novelty,  she  had  organized  a  tea-club 
among  a  few  intimate  friends,  and  had  established  what 
was  known  as  "Boudoir  Teas,"  no  invitations  being  sent 
out,  and  the  ladies  meeting  from  house  to  house,  every 
other  week.  The  gentlemen  were  tabooed,  and  the  ladies 
bringing  fancy-work  of  some  kind,  laid  aside  their  Avraps 
and  spent  a  pleasant  hour  or  so,  chatting,  sewing  and  tea- 
drinking.  The  cosy  room  in  which  she  held  her  teas 
looked  very  inviting  this  afternoon,  with  a  bright  wood 
fire  lighting  up  the  yellow  tiling  about  the  grate,  and 
seeming  to  flash  a  welcome  to  the  guests  as  they  entered. 


Jo  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

In  one  corner  was  a  small  ebony  table  covered  with  a  white 
damask  cloth,  edged  with  lace  and  heavily  embroidered 
in  a  conventional  design.  In  the  centre  of  the  table  was 
a  large  cut-glass  bowl  filled  with  fragment  roses,  ranged 
about  which  were  cups,  saucers  and  plates  of  the  most 
dainty  Sevres  chinaware.  Near  by  was  a  small  stand 
with  a  bright  brass  kettle  swinging  upon  it.  The  stand 
contained  an  alcohol  lamp,  and  Mrs.  Barnes  had  a  pretty 
fashion  of  making  her  own  tea  in  the  presence  of  her 
guests.  Her  tea-gown  was  one  of  silver-gray,  and  few 
women  wore  a  tea-gown  more  gracefully.  She  was  averse 
to  elaborate  dressing  at  these  home  teas,  and  this  soft 
India  silk  gown  with  flowing  sleeves,  showed  to  advantage 
every  outline  of  her  queenly  form.  Beneath  the  filmy 
lace  undersleeve,  her  round  arm  gleamed  with  alabaster 
whiteness.  She  had  in  her  hand  a  large  silk  handkerchief 
she  was  embroidering,  but  she  did  not  seem  to  be  making 
much  progress,  as  Mrs.  Barnes  was  not  fond  of  doing 
fancy-work.  She  liked  something  which  kept  her  thoughts 
less  busily  occupied  with  herself. 

"What  are  you  making  that  is  so  pretty?"  she  asked 
presently  of  Mrs.  Filbert  Prunell. 

Mrs.  Prunell  held  up  a  piece  of  fine  linen  damask 
covered  with  a  scattered  design,  in  wild  roses.  "Oh,  I'm 
trying  to  work  a  centre-cloth  in  the  Kensington  stitch. 
I've  taken  two  lessons,  but  I  don't  quite  like  the  headway 
I  make." 

"That's  pretty,  I  think,  Mrs.  Prunell,"  said  Miss  Miller, 
a  blonde  who  owed  her  position  in  the  society  of  the  upper 
ten  to  her  papa's  success  with  his  famous  liver  pills.  "I'm 
just  finishing  the  last  of  my  doilies.  Have  you  ever  tried 
any  of  the  dra-mi  work?" 

"I  have,"  put  in  Mrs.  Kenilworth  Parkes,  "but  it  is 
too  tiresome.  Flora  Feme  used  to  do  that  work  beauti- 
fully." 

"By  the  way,  where  is  Flora  now?"  asked  Mrs.  Pru- 
nell, looking  up  from  her  work, 

"Gone  home  to  her  parents  in  Boston.  You  know  she 
separated  from  her  husband." 

"Is  that  so  ?     It  must  have  been  done  quietly." 


An  Afternoon  Tea.  71 

'^'^Yes ;  terrible,  isn't  it  ?  I  heard  that  she  said  he  did  not 
treat  her  well,  but  he  says  she  was  fearfully  extravagant; 
but  I,  you  know,  don't  believe  a  word  of  it  myself.  Some- 
body told  me  she  went  through  a  fortune  of  two  hundred 
thousand  dollars  in  three  years'  time." 

"Well,  there  are  always  two  sides  to  a  story,"  said 
Mrs.  Kenilworth  Parkes,  laying  down  her  work  and  toy- 
ing with  a  beaded  ornament  upon  her  dress.  (She  was 
talking  gossip,  it  is  true,  but  don't  Vv^e  all  talk  gossip 
once  in  awhile,  and  don't  we  all  relish  it  just  a  little  bit  ?) 
"I  heard  from  good  authority  that  he  encouraged  her  in 
all  her  extravagance.  She  was  pretty,  smart  and  gay,  and 
he  did  not  want  anybody  to  attract  more  attention  than 
did  she,  and  now  he  wants  to  lay  it  all  to  her — just  like 
a  man,  for  all  the  world." 

"Well,  from  the  number  of  discords  one  hears  of  all  the 
time,  it  is  about  time  to  discuss  the  question,  'Is  Marriage 
a  Failure  ?' "  said  Miss  Willis,  a  maiden  whose  eight  sea- 
sons had  failed  to  bring  her  a  husband. 

"Marriage  will  not  often  be  a  failure,  unless  either 
the  wife  or  the  husband  chooses  to  make  it  so,"  said  Mrs. 
Ivanhoe  Browne  quietly,  speaking  from  the  contentment 
of  her  own  happy  life. 

Miss  Maud  Prunell  tittered.  She  sat  next  to  Dora 
Allene. 

"I  don't  presume  you  consider  marriage  a  failure,"  she 
said  in  an  undertone,  looking  up  at  the  girl  from  under 
her  lashes. 

Dora  was  lying  back  in  an  armchair,  her  hands  folded 
in  her  lap  in  an  aimless  sort  of  way.  She  was  growing  list- 
less, these  days.  A  deep  color  came  into  her  face.  She 
understood  the  sneer  in  Miss  Prunell's  voice.  Everyone 
knew  the  effort  that  had  been  made  to  capture  Lord  Carn- 
leigh.  Everyone  understood  how  he  had  been  trapped  for 
his  title — but  she  steadied  herself  and  said  simply,  "I 
do  not  think  I  shall  find  it  so." 

Maud  Prunell  laughed  unpleasantly.  "Oh,  I  am  sure 
you  will  not.  These  titled  foreigners  always  make  such 
good  husbands,  you  know." 

The  truth  was,  Miss  Maud  Prunell  was  a  little  cha- 


72  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

grined  to  think  that  Dora  Allene  was  going  to  wear  a 
title,  and  at  so  youthful  an  age.  Miss  Maud's  mamma, 
Mrs.  Filbert  Prunell,  had  aspired  to  Lord  Carnleigh's 
title  for  her  own  daughter,  and  when  she  found  that  it  Was 
all  in  vain,  some  spleen  had  been  vented  upon  poor  Dora  s 
offending  head.  "The  way  those  Allenes  had  thrown  that 
girl  in  Lord  Carnleigh's  way,  was  too  disgusting.  For  her 
part,  she  didn't  see  how  people  could  act  so.  It  was  as 
plain  as  the  nose  on  anybody's  face,  that  they  did  not 
mean  to  let  him  slip  them.  Dora  Allene  was  not  half 
as  pretty  as  Maud,  anyhow.  She  really  never  could  allow 
her  daughter  to  marry  a  foreigner.  Those  Englishmen 
were  so  selfish  anyway,"  etc.,  etc. 

It  was  a  wonder  that  Dora's  pink  ears  did  not  burn 
with  the  comments  that  were  made.  Metaphorically  speak- 
ing, she  closed  her  eyes  and  ears,  and  like  a  sensible  girl, 
became  indifferent  to  ever3'thing.  Still  despite  her  deter- 
mination to  become  a  stoic,  she  felt  relieved  when  Mrs. 
Barnes  rose  to  make  the  tea,  and  Maud  Prunell's  atten- 
tion was  turned  in  another  direction.  A  pretty  maid 
in  white  cap  and  apron  entered,  lit  the  Dresden  lamp  and 
drew  the  round  table,  covered  with  the  white  cloth,  into  the 
centre  of  the  room.  The  ladies  then  drew  their  chairs 
to  the  table,  and  Mrs.  Barnes  served  the  tea  and  choco- 
late with  her  own  dainty  fingers. 

''What  delightful  tea,  Mrs.  Barnes;  where  did  you 
find  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Ivanhoe  Browne,  as  the  hostess 
filled  her  second  cup. 

"I  am  glad  you  like  it.  A  friend  of  mine  sent  it  from 
China.  Her  husband  is  a  merchant  there.  Won't  you 
try  some  of  it,  Mrs.  Prunell?" 

"Thank  you.  The  chocolate  is  so  very  nice,  that  I 
really  could  desire  nothing  more.  By  the  way,  Mrs. 
Barnes,  your  entertainment  at  the  church  was  a  marked 
success.     How  much  did  you  realize  from  it?" 

"We  netted  about  three  hundred  dollars.  I  did  intend 
distributing  it  myself,  but  my  experience  of  this  morning 
quite  disheartened  me." 

"What  was  that?" 

'Well,  have  a  sandwich,  Miss  Prunell — ^tea,  Miss  Mil- 


An  Afternoon  Tea.  73 

ler?    Ko?    Ah,  I  thought  you  would  think  better  of  it. 

Well,  you  see,  I  visited  one  family  who  lived  in Street. 

I  am  sure  Mr.  Barnes  would  not  have  allowed  me  to  go 
to  such  a  filthy  place,  had  he  known  it,  but  I  grew  enthu- 
siastic and  wanted  to  become  a  useful  member  of  society. 
Of  all  the  really  dirty  places  you  ever  saw,  that  was  the 
worst,  and  so  close  and  foul.  I  cannot  understand  how 
people  can  live  so,  without  a  breath  of  air,  I  felt  sorry 
for  the  woman  and  children,  they  looked  so  utterly 
wretched,  but  then  it  did  seem  as  though  they  might  have 
tried  to  keep  things  cleaner.  I  took  a  list  of  articles  they 
needed — dear,  dear,  poor  things,  they  needed  enough; 
coal,  bread,  clothing,  shoes,  and  as  for  furniture,  there 
was  precious  little  of  that;  the  miserable  husband  had 
pawned  most  of  it  for  liquor.  I  do  not  wonder  Dr.  Fin- 
castle  is  becoming  interested  in  the  temperance  question. 
The  liquor  habit  is  a  shockingly  bad  habit,  for  such  per- 
sons to  acquire.  But  don't  let  me  get  so  interested  that 
I  neglect  you.  Have  an  olive,  Mrs.  Portleigh?" 

"Thank  you.  I  do  not  see  how  you  can  go  among 
such  people,  Mrs.  Barnes.  Places  of  that  kind  positively 
sicken  me." 

"They  are  not  pleasant  places  to  visit,  certainly.  I  had 
such  an  experience  too.  As  I  was  about  to  leave,  after 
giving  the  woman  -a  little  money  to  defray  immediate  ex- 
penses, someone  came  stumbling  upstairs  and  into  the 
room.  What  do  you  think?  The  woman  actually  intro- 
duced the  drunken,  leering  wretch  to  me.  'This  is  my 
husband,  ma'am,'  she  said,  looking  rather  shamefaced  as 
she  said  it.  The  creature  took  off  his  hat  and  grinned. 
'Glad  to  see  you,  ma'am.'  I  merely  stared  at  him.  Such 
people  are  not  fit  to  be  spoken  to.  He  looked  rather  un- 
comfortable and  seemed  to  wish  to  conciliate  me.  'I 
don't  s'pose  you  live  around  these  parts,  ma'am?'  I  paid 
no  attention  to  him.  He  came  a  little  closer.  'It's  very 
kind  of  you,  ma'am,  to  take  notice  of  the  likes  of  us. 
We  don't  perten'  to  no  style,  but  we're  honest  folk,  ma'am.' 
I  treated  him  with  silent  contempt,  but  my  disdain  was 
lost  upon  the  wretched  creature,  who  came  still  closer,  so 
close  that  I  rose  from  my  seat  and  could  contain  my  in- 


74  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

dignation  no  longer.  'Aren't  you  ashamed  to  come  home 
in  such  a  condition  that  you  make  yourself  an  object  of 
disgust  to  your  family,  and  to  everyone  else?  Why  don't 
you  behave  yourself  and  be  a  man?'  He  grew  angry  in  a 
moment,  and  swore  so  dreadfully  at  me.  'What  do  you 
come  around  here  for  anyway?  Nobody  wants  you,'  he 
said,  glaring  at  me." 

"Ungrateful  wretch!"  exclaimed  Miss  Miller,  "after 
your  kindness  too." 

Mrs.  Barnes  nodded.  "His  wife  went  to  him  and  put 
her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  'Dear  husband'  (she  actually 
called  him  dear),  'this  lady  has  been  very  kind  to  us.  She 
is  going  to  buy  us  coal  and  clothing — '  she  did  not  finish. 
Oh,  ladies,  what  do  you  think  he  did — he  turned  around 
and  struck  her." 

"Oh,  dear,  dear !"  was  heard  upon  all  sides. 

"What  did  you  do?  Were  you  not  afraid?"  asked  Mrs. 
Kenilworth  Parkes. 

Mrs.  Barnes  drew  herself  up  proudly.  "Afraid !  No, 
indeed.  I  called  him  a  brute  and  told  him  he  ought  to 
be  ashamed  of  himself.  He  glared  at  me  and  clenched  his 
fists,  as  though  he  would  strike  me  too,  asking  me  what 
business  I  had  coming  around  there  preaching  to  him 
and  his;  but  his  wife  glided  in  between  us." 

"  'Please,  ma'am,  go  now,'  she  whispered.  'He's  getting 
ugly.  But  don't  think  too  hard  of  him — he's  awful  good 
and  kind,  indeed  he  is  when  he  ain't  in  his  cups.'  I  dis- 
liked to  leave  the  woman  alone  with  that  creature,  but  I 
went  and  I  don't  think  I  shall  offer  to  turn  city  mission- 
ary again." 

"That's  the  way  with  those  women,"  said  Mrs.  Pru- 
nell ;  "they  allow  their  husbands  to  beat  and  ill-treat  them, 
and  then  if  any  rational  being  interferes,  they  take  it  in 
very  bad  part." 

"Liquor  is  a  miserable  thing  among  such  people,"  said 
Mrs.  Miller;  "they  don't  seem  to  know  how  to  use  it  in 
moderation.  Now  one  never  sees  a  gentleman  overcome 
by  liquor." 

The  ladies  had  pushed  back  their  chairs;  the  pretty 


An  Afternoon  Tea,  75 

maid  in  white  cap  and  apron  had  cleared  the  table,  and 
the  fancy-work  had  been  resumed. 

"I  don't  think  Dr.  Fincastle  should  ask  the  ladies  of 
his  congregation  to  visit  such  places,"  said  Miss  Willis; 
"there  are  city  missionaries  to  attend  to  such  things.  If 
we  give  money,  that's  all  that  ought  to  be  expected  of  us." 

"Then  there  is  Dr.  Potter,  the  assistant.  He  is  paid  to 
attend  to  everything  of  that  sort." 

"Oh,  I  was  not  expected  to  visit  that  place,"  said  Mrs. 
Barnes.  "It  was  my  own  doing.  I  have  eo  one  else  to 
blame.  But  I  must  not  weary  you  with  the  subject.  Miss 
Prunell,  will  you  kindly  play  for  us?" 

Miss  Prunell,  of  course,  after  the  manner  of  young 
ladies  who  play,  said  that  she  was  shockingly  out  of  prac- 
tice, and  that  she  could  not  play  without  her  notes  and  so 
on  and  so  forth,  but  was  finally  induced  to  render  "just 
a  simple  little  thing,"  and  before  she  rose  from  the  piano 
had  played  several  simple  little  things  and  several  diffi- 
cult big  things — in  fact,  seemed  quite  averse  to  leaving 
the  instrument  at  all. 

At  last  the  "tea"  was  over,  the  ladies  in  their  outer  wraps, 
with  work  rolled  away  in  fancy  satin  bags  that  hung  over 
their  arms,  were  bidding  the  hostess  adieu,  and  the  foot- 
man stood  ready  to  escort  each  lady  in  turn  to  her  car- 
riage. 

Dora  Allene,  in  a  long  gray  peasant  cloak,  with  hood 
drawn  over  her  head,  looked  like  a  quaint  Priscilla. 

"Miss  Allene's  carriage,"  called  out  the  footman. 

"Good-bye,  dear,"  said  Mrs,  Barnes,  as  she  kissed  her 
on  either  cheek.  "I'm  sorry  your  mother  could  not  be  with 
us  to-day.  Come  and  see  me  soon,  Dora  dear."  She  put 
her  hand  upon  Dora's  shoulder  lingeringly.  She  seemed 
to  have  a  sort  of  kinship  with  this  girl,  since  she  knew  of 
her  aching  heart. 

Dora  looked  up  for  a  moment,  as  though  about  to  speak, 
then  she  seemed  to  change  her  mind. 

"Good  night,"  she  said  simply,  and  was  gone. 

Mrs.  Barnes  turned  away  and  went  to  the  library.  A 
sort  of  restlessness  was  upon  her  to-night.    What  a  mock- 


"j^  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

ery  it  was  to  sit  down  to  the  table  alone,  when  dinner  was 
served ! 

Her  dinner  she  left  almost  untasted,  but  she  drank  sev- 
eral glasses  of  wine.  She  wanted  a  stimulant,  something 
to  excite  her,  something  to  make  her  forget  herself.  She 
wandered  back  to  the  library.  It  was  seven  o'clock.  She 
stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  the  little  French  clock  upon 
the  cabinet.  What  an  incessant  tick-tick-tick!  It  made 
her  nervous.  She  opened  the  door  and  put  her  hand  upon 
the  pendulum  to  stop  it.  Long  afterwards  she  remem- 
bered the  hour.  Just  seven.  She  heard  a  noise  in  the  hall 
and  stopped  to  listen.  Someone  was  fumbling  at  the  front 
door.  Then  she  heard  dragging,  uncertain  steps  and  a 
mumbling  as  though  a  sort  of  contention  was  going  on. 
Her  heart  began  to  beat  wildly.  What  was  it?  Her  first 
thought  was  of  '^thieves."  The  stumbling  steps  came 
nearer;  she  heard  the  voice  of  Eogers  the  coachman. 

"Don't  go  in  there,  Mr.  Barnes,  please — come  to  your 
room  and  we'll  get  you  to  bed." 

There  was  a  sort  of  struggle  and  a  thick  voice  answered : 
"Say,  let  me  alone,  can't  you.  I'll  go  where  I  please  in 
my  own  house,  and  you  go  to  the  devil." 

The  library  door  was  pushed  open,  and  her  husband 
stood  revealed.  Never  before  in  all  her  married  life  had 
she  seen  him  like  this.  She  knew  that  he  was  dissipated, 
but  he  had  had  the  good  taste  to  stay  away  from  home  until 
sober.  Indeed  it  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  he  could 
ever  look  like  this. 

He  was  in  evening  dress,  his  hat  was  crushed  down 
upon  his  head;  his  linen  was  soiled;  his  outer  coat  splashed 
with  mud;  the  gloves  in  his  hand  were  torn  and  soiled; 
his  face  was  flushed  and  swollen,  and,  altogether  he  looked 
as  unlike  the  tall,  handsome  man  whom  five  years  ago  she 
had  promised  to  love  and  honor — love !  She  felt  as  though 
every  spark  had  died  out  of  her  heart — honor !  such  a 
creature  as  that !  She  could  think  of  nothing  but  the 
drunken  wretch  she  had  seen  the  day  before.  Her  hus- 
band was  no  better  than  that  man.  She  thought  of  Mrs. 
Miller's  words:  "One  never  sees  a  gentleman  under  the 
influence  of  liquor."     She  was  tied  to  a  man  who  could 


An  Afternoon  Tea.  ']'] 

make  of  himself  such  a  creature  as  this.  Her  very  soul 
grew  sick  within  her.  She  drew  herself  to  her  full  height, 
looking  like  an  outraged  goddess,  with  her  superb  form 
and  closely  clinging  dress;  and  stood  staring  at  him  for 
some  moments. 

"Rogers,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  that  made  the  coachman 
quail,  "what  do  you  mean  by  bringing  your  master  home 
in  such  a  condition?" 

Eogers  bowed.  "Please,  Mrs,  Barnes,  I  couldn't  help 
it.  He  never  wanted  to  come  before,  but  it  were  a  freak 
he  took  and  nothing  would  stop  him." 

Courtney  Barnes  straightened  himself,  intoxicated  as 
he  was,  and  glared  angrily  at  the  poor  coachman.  "Shut 
up,"  he  thundered.  "I'll  come  home  when  I  please  and  as 
I  please ;  I'm  damned  if  I  won't." 

His  wife  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  with  anger 
and  excitement,  not  with  fear.  "If  you  cannot  come  home 
in  a  better  condition,  and  use  less  offensive  language/'  she 
said  slowly  but  with  intense  scorn  in  her  voice,  "you  had 
better  stay  away  altogether." 

He  turned  upon  her  fiercely.  "You  can't  make  a  puppy 
of  me,  madam.  I'm  master  in  this  house,  and  if  you  don't 
like  the  way  I  talk  and  act,  you  can  get  out,  do  you 
hear?" 

Oh,  he  would  never  have  spoken  to  her  so,  had  he  been 
himself,  but  she  was  too  excited  to  realize  the  fact.  For  a 
moment  she  felt  as  though  her  very  life  would  go  from  her. 
then  she  turned  towards  him  with  a  slight  inclination  of 
her  head. 

"Very  well.  I  shall  go  as  you  request."  And  she  swept 
from  the  room. 

She  hurried  to  her  own  apartments.  Her  maid  had 
fallen  into  a  doze  over  the  fire.  She  did  not  waken  her, 
but  seizing  a  long  opera  cloak  from  the  wardrobe,  threw 
it  about  her  shoulders,  drew  the  hood  over  her  head  and 
slipped  downstairs. 

"I  am  going  out,"  she  said  to  the  wondering  footman. 

"But  the  carriage — "  began  the  man. 

"I  do  not  wish  it."  The  front  door  closed  behind  her 
and  she  passed  out  into  the  night. 


yS  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 


CHAPTER  X. 

LORD   CAENLEIGH   WEITES  DORA. 

"O,  coward  conscience,  how  dost  thou  afflict  me." 

— King  Richard  III. 

Never  before  in  all  Lord  Carnleigh's  life  (that  is  in 
his  recollection)  had  his  conscience  ever  troubled  him  with 
more  than  an  occasional  twinge.  He  had  been  wild  and 
reckless,  a  companion  of  money-lenders  and  parasites;  he 
had  been  the  means  of  beggaring  his  best  friend,  a  young 
nobleman  who  had  killed  himself  in  his  despair.  He  had 
been  expelled  from  a  fashionable  English  club,  accused 
of  winning  money  fraudulently.  His  name  had  been  scan- 
dalously associated  with  a  burlesque  actress,  who  danced 

at  the  Theatre,  and  who  went  under  the  fantastic 

soubriquet  of  "Psyche  Sykes."  So  attentive  was  he  to  this 
damsel  for  a  time  that  the  gallery  gods  were  wont  to  cry 
out  when  she  appeared  wreathed  in  smiles  and  little  else, 
"Well,  Psyche,  how's  milord?"  His  worst  escapade  was 
his  marriage  with  the  woman  who  was,  as  it  proved,  much 
to  his  horror,  his  lawful  wife.  He  had  fallen  in  love  with 
her  pretty  face,  had  deceived  her  into  what  he  thought  was 
a  mock  marriage;  had  grown  tired  of  her  and  without  a 
twinge  of  conscience  had  left  her.  Bad  as  he  was,  he  had 
not  known  of  the  child.  Now  that  he  was  about  to  reform, 
to  build  up  his  shattered  fortunes  with  Dora  Allene's 
money — that  this  woman  should  stand  in  his  way  and  the 
child,  the  little  Lord  Carnleigh !  If  for  one  moment  his 
heart  thrilled  at  the  thought  of  his  fatherhood,  Dora  AI- 


Lord  Carnleigh  Writes  Dora.  79 

lene's  face  would  come  between  him  and  this  thought.  Ho 
groaned  inwardly.  For  once  he  said  with  Eichard,  "liy 
conscience  hath  a  thousand  several  tongues,  and  every 
tongue  brings  in  a  several  tale,  and  every  tale  condem-rs 
me  for  a  villain."  Somehow  he  had  gotten  the  idea  into 
his  head  that  he  was  going  to  reform,  to  be  a  man,  despite 
the  fact  that  he  knew  and  that  she  knew  their  prospectivG 
marriage  to  be  a  marriage  of  convenience,  money  versus 
a  title.  This  girl  had  a  stronger  influence  over  him  than 
any  woman  he  had  ever  known.  He  had  thought  of  sctlliDg 
down  to  a  better  way  of  living,  of  rebuilding  and  remodel- 
ling the  old  Hall,  of  purchasing  a  handsome  town  house 
and  showing  his  pretty  wife  there  during  the  season.  And 
now  it  was  all  over.  Why  had  his  brother  meddled  with 
the  affair?  Why  had  Allan  Tremaine  turned  a  canting 
Methodist?  But  he  would  not  stand  it.  He  would  marry 
the  girl.  He  would  never  live  with  that  woman.  He  would 
never  acknowledge  the  boy.  He  would  get  a  divorce  if  it 
were  a  possible  thing.  His  brother  had  come  upon  him 
unexpectedly.  He  had  taken  an  undue  advantage  of  him. 
He  had  surprised  him  into  promising  to  go  home  with  him, 
to  live  with  that  woman  again.  It  was  the  second  day 
after  his  brother's  arrival.  Lord  Carnleigh  had  been  con- 
fined to  his  apartments  by  a  heavy  cold  taken  the  night 
of  his  bachelor  dinner.  And  then,  although  he  would  not 
have  acknowledged  it  even  to  himself,  he  made  his  cold 
an  excuse  to  his  brother — he  dreaded  the  inevitable — he 
dreaded  to  see  Dora — he  dreaded  the  explanation.  What 
would  she  say  ?  How  would  she  take  it  ?  He  pictured  her 
beautiful  face  looking  at  him  in  scorn.  He  pictured  her 
turning  from  him  and  denouncing  him.  He  could  never 
stand  that.  The  farther  this  woman  receded  from  his 
grasp,  the  more  he  longed  for  her.  It  seemed  that  in 
losing  her,  he  lost  all.  His  love  for  this  other  woman,  his 
wife,  had  so  com^pletely  died  out  of  his  heart,  that  the 
thought  even  of  the  child  was  obnoxious  to  him.  His 
brother  had  come  upon  him  suddenly;  had  taken  him  by 
surprise.  He  had  been  drinking  heavily  and  his  nerves 
were  unstrung,  his  feelings  easily  worked  upon.  He  had 
promised  under  the  better  impulses  of  the  moment  to 


8o  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

do  as  his  brother  requested.  The  longer  he  thought  over 
it  the  more  rebellious  he  became,  the  less  willing  to  do  what 
he  knew  to  be  right.  He  was  lying  back  in  an  easy  chair, 
his  feet  encased  in  Kussia  leather  slippers  and  with  a  long 
silken  dressing  gown  wrapped  about  him.  Upon  a  table 
near  by  were  a  bouquet  of  fresh  flowers  and  several  cards 
sent  up  by  solicitous  friends.  He  had  just  lighted  a  cigar 
as  his  brother  came  in. 

"Good  morning,  Alfred.     Are  you  feeling  better?" 

*'No,''  shortly.    "I'm  feeling  like  the  deuce." 

Henry  took  a  seat.  From  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he 
pitied  his  wayward  brother. 

Alfred  pulled  away  savagely  at  his  cigar  for  some  mo- 
ments. "It's  no  use,"  he  snapped  presently;  "you  can't 
come  here  and  preach  to  me  about  right  and  wrong.  I 
tell  you  I  won't  live  with  that  woman.  I'll  try  to  get  a 
divorce  and  if  I  can't,  I'll  live  single.  That  woman 
shan't  fool  me  into  living  v/ith  her.  Who  knows  whether 
that  boy  is  mine  or  not.  It  may  be  some  trumped  up 
story  of  hers.     It  may  be  Allan  Tremaine's  child " 

Henry  lifted  his  hand,  a  pained  look  upon  his  face. 
"Alfred,  don't.    You  are  speaking  of  your  v.ife." 

"My  wife ! — God !  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  her  simper- 
ing face.  Why  did  you  meddle  with  the  matter  at  all? 
Why  didn't  you  let  things  take  their  course  ?  This  woman 
would  not  have  dared  to  trouble  me.  Now  she  knows  you 
Vrdll  uphold  her,  she'll  swear  to  anything." 

Henry  gazed  at  him  steadily  for  some  minutes.  "You 
cannot  mean  v.diat  you  say,  Alfred.  If  I  had  allowed 
things  to  take  their  course,  this  girl  you  were  about  to 
marry  would  have  been  no  wife  at  all.  If  you  truly  loved 
her  in  your  heart,  you  could  not  wish  to  wrong  her  so.'" 

Lord  Carnleigh  groaned.  "ISTo — no — no.  I  did  not 
mean  that — I  did  not  know  what  I  was  saying.  Bad  as 
I  am,  I  would  not  harm  a  hair  of  her  head.  I  might  any 
other  woman — not  her,  oh,  God,  not  her!" 

Henry  came  and  put  his  hand  upon  his  brother's  shoul- 
der. "My  dear  brother,  my  heart  bleeds  for  you.  I  can- 
not bear  to  give  you  pain,  but  I  can  see  only  the  one  way 
for  you."    He  paused ;  never  had  he  seen  Alfred  so  deeply 


Lord  Carnleigh  Writes  Dora.  8s 

moved.  The  purest  feeling  that  had  ever  come  into  his 
wayward  brother's  life,  was  his  love  for  this  woman.  He 
could  not  tell  just  what  to  do.  He  stood  for  some  mo- 
ments in  thought.  "I  cannot  think  it  right/'  he  said 
slowly,  "for  you  to  put  away  your  lawful  wife,  and  I 
doubt  if  the  law  would  sustain  you  in  it,  but  so  anxious 
am  I  for  your  happiness,  that  1  cannot  bear  to  staxid  in 
your  way.  Let  me  advise  you,  my  dear  brother.  You  love 
this  girl,  this  Miss  Allene ;  go  to  her,  tell  her  everything — 
everything,  mind  you,  withholding  nothing  from  her.  If 
she  be  willing  to  wait  for  you  to  get  a  divorce  from  your 
wife,  wrong  as  I  think,  much  as  it  is  against  my  con- 
science, I  will  abide  by  it.  It  is  against  my  preaching, 
against  my  teaching,  my  life,  but  I  will  put  no  obstacle 
in  your  way,  provided  you  promise  to  properly  care  for  your 
wife  and  child,  and  insure  them  against  want.  Do  you 
think  now  that  I  desire  your  happiness?" 

Alfred  clasped  his  brothers  hand.  His  own  trembled 
violently.  "You  are  too  good  to  me,  Henry,  far  better 
than  I  deserve.    I  will  do  as  you  say." 

He  rang  for  his  valet.    "Briggs,  the  pen  and  ink." 
His  hand  trembled  so  that  he  destroyed  several  sheets  of 
paper  before  finishing  a  note  to  his  satisfaction. 

"Dear  Dora,"  he  wrote,  "I  have  quite  recovered  my  in- 
disposition and  flatter  myself  that  I  shall  have  a  sight  of 
your  bonny  face  this  afternoon.  I  want  you  all  to  myself. 
Shall  call  at  three,  if  that  hour  suits  you.  Please  do  not 
say  me  nay.  I  send  you  some  roses.  Fair  as  they  are, 
they  cannot  compare  in  sweetness  and  purity  with  your 
beautiful  self. 

"Devotedly  yours,  Alfred." 

"Briggs,"  he  said,  folding  and  sealing  the  bit  of  paper, 
"order  two  dozen  roses  and  have  a  boy  take  the  note  and 

flowers  to  Miss  Dora  Allene,  No.  Prairie  Avenue. 

The  address  is  on  the  envelope." 

Briggs  bowed.     "Yes,  sir.     Is  there  an  answer,  sir?" 
"Certainly,  tell  the  boy  to  wait  for  one  and  bring  it 
back  here,  and  tell  him  to  be  quick  about  it." 


82  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

Nothing  less  than  a  Mercury  with  winged  feet  would 
have  satisfied  his  impatience  to-day.  He  walked  up  and 
down,  up  and  down  the  room,  until  his  head  was  in  a 
whirl.  A  dozen  times  he  went  to  the  window  and  looked 
out  down  Michigan  Avenue. 

"How  deucedly  slow  that  boy  is/'  he  said  petulantly, 
over  and  over  again. 

"Here,  he  is,"  said  Henry  at  last,  as  Briggs  opened  the 
door  in  answer  to  a  rap,  and  the  boy  came  in  panting 
and  breathless. 

Lord  Carnleigh  snatched  the  note  from  the  boy's  hand, 
and  tore  it  open. 

"I  shall  be  at  home  at  three,"  it  said,  "and  shall  ex- 
pect you.  j\Iany  thanks  for  the  beautiful  roses.  You  are 
very  kind  and  thoughtful. 

"Yours,  Dora.'" 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  half-past  twelve.  What 
an  interminable  time  to  wait! 

"Briggs,  I  think  I  shall  dress  for  lunch,"  he  said  slowly. 

"Henry,"  turning  to  his  brother,  "wouldn't  you  like  to 
take  a  drive  after  lunch?'' 

Henry  rose  from  his  chair.  "Ye — s,"  he  said  hesitat- 
ingly, looking  inquiringly  at  his  brother. 

Lord  Carnleigh  came  close  to  him.  "It's  all  right,"  he 
whispered  nervously.  "I'm  to  go  there  at  three,  but  you'll 
excuse  me — if  I'd  prefer  going  alone." 

Henry  pressed  his  brother's  hand.  "Certainly,"  he 
answereil  in  an  undertone;  "but,"  he  paused  a  moment, 
"you'll  do  what's  right,  Alfred?" 

Lord  Carnleigh  returned  the  pressure.  "Do  not  be 
afraid.  I  shall  tell  her  all,"  he  answered,  and  Henry  left 
the  room. 


It  was  ten  minutes  of  three.    Dora  AUene  sat  at  one 

of  the  Made  front  windows  of  the  Allene  mansion  looking 
out  at  the  opposite  houses  and  toying  with  the  rings  upon 


Lord  Carnleieh  Writes  Dora. 


"t. 


her  fingers.  The  window  seat  was  upholstered  in  plush 
and  she  sat  with  her  feet  curled  up  under  her,  like  a  little 
Turk.  The  stained  glass  at  the  top  and  sides  of  the 
window  threw  many  colored  lights  across  her  white  wool 
gown  (she  had  a  penchant  for  white  house  gowns,  and  no 
wonder,  she  looked  so  pretty  in  them),  and  lightened  her 
yellow  hair  into  a  crown  of  burnished  gold.  She  looked 
rather  petulant  and  out  of  sorts,  a  strange  way  for  a  girl 
to  look,  who  sat  watching  for  her  lover,  and  a  strange  way 
for  a  young  woman  to  look  who  had  a  bridal  trousseau,  at 
least  the  greater  part  of  it,  lying  in  a  room  above  stairs — 
and  such  a  trousseau !  Such  piles  of  lace  and  embroidery, 
satin  and  silk  as  would  make  the  heart  of  any  woman 
glad — and  the  owner  of  it  all  sat  gazing  as  discontentedly 
out  of  the  window  as  though  she  had  not  a  friend  in  the 
world.  The  Filbert  Prunells  lived  opposite,  in  a  house 
of  gray  Georgia  marble.  Dora  had  seen  it  every  day  al- 
most for  the  past  year,  but  somehow  she  made  a  study  of 
it  to-day.  She  counted  every  stone  in  the  arch  over  the 
doorway.  She  counted  the  number  of  steps  leading  to  the 
front  door,  there  were  eight.  She  noticed  for  the  first 
time  two  Gorgon  heads  that  upheld  the  arches  of  the  upper 
bow-Y/indow.  There  were  filmy  lace  curtains  back  of  these, 
and  in  the  centre  of  the  window  stood  a  delicate  brass 
stand,  holding  a  bowl  filled  with  cut  flowers.  There  were 
always  cut  flowers  in  this  window.  Miss  Maud  Prunell 
liked  people  to  think  the  young  gentlemen  she  knew  were 
attentive.  The  curtains  of  an  upper  window  parted,  and 
Miss  Maud  Prunell  appeared  dressed  for  a  drive.  She 
smiled  and  bowed,  as  she  looked  across  at  Dora.  Inwardly 
she  was  delighted  that  her  friend  sat  at  the  window,  for 
young  H.  de  Smythe  had  asked  her  to  go  for  a  drive,  and 
young  H.  de  Smythe  was  quite  a  catch.  Of  course  he 
hadn't  a  title,  but  then  he  had  lots  of  money,  and  she  would 
show  Dora  Allene  that  somebody  else  could  make  a  brilliant 
match,  as  well  as  herself;  for  certainly  young  de  Smythe 
had  been  very  attentive  lately.  He  came  presently — a 
very  Phoebus  driving  the  chariot  of  the  sun — in  a  yellow 
box-cart,  cream  colored  span,  harnessed  tandem  and  with 
a  stunning  lackey  clad  in  yellow,  sitting  with  folded  arms 


84  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

and  immovable  countenance,  at  the  back.  Miss  Prunell 
disappeared  very  suddenly  from  the  windovt^,  and  it  was 
some  time  after  the  lackey  pushed  the  knob  of  the  electric 
bell  that  she  appeared,  looking  very  pretty  in  her  dark  red 
broadcloth  dress,  and  black  lynx  furs  and  great  black  vel- 
vet hat  with  nodding  plumes,  as  she  came  tripping  down 
the  steps.  The  lackey  held  the  head  of  the  leader,  Mr. 
H.  de  Smythe  lifted  his  hat,  descended,  assisted  Miss  Pru- 
nell into  her  place,  got  in  after  her,  took  the  reins,  the 
lackey  leaped  to  his  seat,  folded  his  arms,  resumed  his 
immobility  of  countenance,  and  the  gay  turnout  rolled 
down  the  street. 

Dora  smiled  as  she  looked  after  them,  and  then  sighed, 
although  she  did  not  know  why.  She  certainly  did  not 
envy  Maud  Prunell.  Indeed  she  scarcely  knew  why  she 
felt  so  discontented  and  petulant.  She  had  rather  wanted 
to  go  for  a  drive  this  afternoon,  but  then  she  wanted  to 
see  Lord  Carnleigh  too.  She  had  something  to  say  to  him. 
She  really  did  not  know  just  what  was  the  matter  with 
her  anyway.  She  looked  out  of  the  window.  A  carriage 
drove  up.  Lord  Carnleigh  alighted.  Dora  sprang  from 
the  window  and  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
Her  heart  began  to  beat  wildl}'-,  and  she  trembled  so  she 
could  scarcely  stand.  What  was  the  matter?  She  did 
not  know.  It  seemed  as  though  she  would  faint.  She 
heard  the  front  door  close,  heard  him  come  through  the 
hall  and  enter  the  room.  She  turned  towards  him.  His 
face  lit  up  as  he  saw  her. 

"Dora,"  he  said,  in  a  deep,  thrilling  tone  as  he  came  to- 
wards her.  Then  he  came  nearer,  "Why,  Dora;  what  is 
the  matter  ?  How  pale  you  are ;  and  your  hands,"  taking 
them  in  his,  "how  they  tremble  V  And  he  bent  over  her 
anxiously. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  gently,  struggling  to  free  her- 
self.    "I  felt  so  faint  for  an  instant.     I'm  better  now." 

"You  must  sit  down,"  he  said  tenderly,  leading  her  to 
a  seat.    "Shall  I  ring  for  water?" 

"Oh,  no,  no.  I'm  much  better,  thank  you.  I  shall  be 
all  right  in  a  moment.  I  don't  know  what  made  me  feel 
60  strangely.     Something  seemed  to  come  over  me,  like 


Lord  Carnleigh  Writes  Dora,  85' 

a  dash  of  cold  water,  and  I  felt  as  though  I  should  fall  to 
the  ground.  It  was  a  dreadful  sensation."  She  looked  up 
at  him,  then  gave  a  nervous  start,  clutched  at  his  hand  and 
looked  at  him  again. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  Dora?"  he  asked,  staring  at 
her  in  amazement. 

She  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  "Why,  how  nervous  I  am. 
It's  only  the  stained  glass.  Do  you  know  you  moved  your 
head,  and  the  glass  made  it  look  as  though  your  forehead 
were  covered  with  blood.  There !  there  it  is  again !  Do 
change  your  seat.  You  cannot  think  how  it  makes  me 
feel;"  and  she  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hand. 

Somehow  he  was  affected  by  her  humor.  A  long  shudder 
passed  through  his  veins,  but  he  recovered  himself  in  an 
instant.  "Why,  child,"  he  said  soothingly,  moving  out  of 
range  of  the  glass  and  drawing  her  towards  him,  "you  are 
all  unnerved."  He  took  her  hand  in  his  and  sat  looking 
at  her  for  some  time. 

"Dora,"  he  said  at  last,  his  voice  trembling  a  little, 
"I've  been  quite  a  correct  and  properly  behaved  sort  of  a 
lover,  haven't  I  ?  Not  very  demonstrative,  nor  full  of  the 
proverbial  sentimentality  they  say  lovers  affect.  But  I 
am  going  to  make  a  request  of  you.  Put  your  arms  around 
my  neck,"  his  voice  was  low  and  intense,  "and  tell  me  that 
you  love  me." 

She  looked  at  him  as  though  she  could  not  have  heard 
aright.  Theirs  was  to  be  a  "marriage  of  convenience;" 
what  had  they  to  do  with  love?  Never  but  once  had  he 
shown  any  very  lover-like  ardor  (he  had  been  kind,  thought- 
ful and  polite  always)  ;  that  night  that  he  took  her  in  his 
arms  and  kissed  her,  when  she  promised  to  try  and  arrange 
to  be  married  in  December. 

Lord  Carnleigh  smiled  sadly.  "I  do  not  wonder  that 
you  look  at  me.  But  if  you  would — "  he  hesitated,  turning 
to  her  pleadingly. 

Her  head  dropped  upon  her  breast.  *'You  have  been 
very  good,  very  kind — but,  I  did  not  dream  of  any  love." 

"Then  you  do  not  love  me?" 

She  did  not  lift  her  eyes.  "Why,  I — I — ^had  not  thought 
of  love." 


86  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  paced  up  and  down  the  floor, 
with  his  hands  thrust  into  his  pockets.  The  marble  Venus 
uplifting  the  silken  hanging  seemed  to  smile  upon  him 
in  a  sinister  way.  No  doubt  it  pleased  the  goddess  of 
beauty  that  men  should  sigh  for  love  of  a  woman,  as  cen- 
turies before  the  gods  had  sighed  for  love  of  her.  There 
even  seemed  to  be  a  baleful  light  in  the  goddess'  eyes,  as 
he  glanced  up  at  her. 

Dora  ran  to  him  and  put  her  hand  in  his.  "Lord  Carn- 
leigh — Alfred — come  sit  down,  pleas'e  do.  I  want  to  talk 
with  you." 

He  suffered  himself  to  be  led  to  a  seat,  but  sat  gazing 
moodily  before  him. 

Dora  clasped  her  hands  together  in  a  nervous  sort  of 
way,  and  began: 

"I  have  wanted  to  talk  with  you  for  some  time,  but  I 
have  not  had  the  courage.  You  know  that  we  are  to  be 
married  very  soon,"  a  chill  passed  over  Lord  Carnleigh, 
"and  T  wanted  you  to  understand  me.  I  wanted  to  be  hon- 
orable with  you.  I  have  thought  all  along  that  you  were 
marrying  me  for  my  money;  indeed,  I've  been  sure  of  it 
until  to-day.  And  I — you  know  why  I  engaged  myself  to 
you — because  you  have  a  title — my  money  was  to  offset 
your  title,  and  so  the  marriage  was  arranged.  Oh,  forgive 
me  for  saying  this.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  this  because  I 
thought  it  a  miserable  deception  to  marry  you,  without 
telling  you  how  I  felt.  You  have  been  very  kind  to  me. 
I  could  ask  no  more  thoughtful  lover.  You  ask  me  if  I 
love  you.  I  cannot  tell  an  untruth,  but  I  will  try  to  make 
you  a  good  wife." 

Lord  Carnleigh  put  his  arms  about  her  and  drew  her 
to  him.  For  one  moment  this  woman  should  be  his — before 
she  knew,  before  she  could  look  with  scorn  at  him.  He 
kissed  her  eyes,  her  hair,  her  lips — he  held  her  so  tightly 
that  it  seemed  as  though  he  would  crush  her  very  life  out 
against  his  breast.  Then  he  relaxed  his  hold  and  almost 
pushed  her  from  him. 

"You  say  you  do  not  love  me,"  he  said  bitterly.  "It  is 
better  so.  I  can  bring  nothing  but  wretchedness  and  misery 
into  any  woman's  life.     You  will  hate  me  very  soon,  when 


Lord  Carnleigh  Writes  Dora.  87 

I  tell  you  all  I  have  come  to  tell.  You  might  as  well  be- 
gin to  despise  me  at  once.  I  am  a  bad  man — no  more  fit 
to  be  the  husband  of  such  a  woman  as  you  have  shown, 
yourself  to  be,  than  I  am  fit  to  be  the  husband  of  an 
angel.  I  did  not  feel  so  at  first.  When  you  engaged  your- 
self to  me  I  knew — do  not  think  me  unkind — that  you,  or 
at  least  your  family  were  buying  my  title.  I  needed 
money.  I  was  desperate.  I  thought  your  money  would 
set  me  on  my  feet  again — would  rebuild  my  shattered 
fortunes.  I  will  be  frank  with  you.  I  have  never  been 
frank  with  any  living  creature  before.  I  have  not  even 
been  an  honorable  man,  but  I'll  be  frank  with  you.  I 
could  not  deceive  you  now.  You  will  hate  me  and  despise 
me,  but  I  have  begun  and  I  must  finish.  I  shall  make  you 
my  confessor.  I  love  you.  As  much  as  a  disreputable,  dis- 
honorable man  can  love,  I  love  you.  Beneath  the  selfish- 
ness and  follies  that  belong — I  do  not  mean  to  be  discour- 
teous— to  your  age  and  station,  there  was  a  womanliness 
that  appealed  to  the  little  better  nature  that  was  left  in 
me.  My  sins,  my  dissipations  were  almost  my  second 
nature,  and  yet  there  came  a  feeling  that  some  time  you 
might  lead  me  to  something  better — that  I  might  be  a  dif- 
ferent man,  for  love  of  you.  And  then  I  found  out  the 
other  day,  that  it  was  all  to  be  shattered,  that  you,  my 
darling,  were  to  be  taken  from  me.  Heaven  help  me !  how 
shall  I  tell  you — "  he  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hands  and 
groaned.  A  sense  of  horror  came  over  her — a  feeling  as 
though  something  dreadful  were  about  to  happen. 

"What  is  it  ?"  she  cried,  trying  to  draw  his  hands  from 
his  face.     "What  is  the  matter?" 

He  put  his  arms  about  her  and  kissed  her  again  and 
again. 

"Oh,  my  darling,  promise  you  will  not  utterly  despioC 
me,  and  turn  from  me.  I  did  not  know  of  this  thing 
when  I  asked  you  to  marry  me,  or  I  would  not  have  dis- 
graced you  so.  I  have  no  right  to  marry  you.  I  have 
a  wife  living." 

She  sprang  from  him  as  though  he  had  been  a  leper. 

"Oh,  my  God!      What  do  you  mean?" 

His  hands  dropped  helplessly  at  his  side.     "Sit  down. 


88  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 


ta 


Dora,  and  I  will  try  to  explain  it  to  you."  It  went 
through  him  like  a  knife,  that  she  sat  down  at  some  dis- 
tance from  him. 

"I  do  not  wonder  that  you  despise  me,"  he  said  piteously. 
"I  have  deceived  you,  but  it  was  my  ignorance,  not  my 
crime.  Some  years  ago,  I  met  a  woman  with  whom  I 
fell  in  love.  I  had  been  drinking  and  carousing  for  some 
weeks,  and  was  not  myself.  My  companion,  a  man  by  the 
name  of  Tremaine,  persuaded  me  into  what  he  told  me 
was  to  be  a  mock  marriage,  with  the  girl,  but  having  a 
grudge  against  me,  he  procured  a  lawful  clergyman,  and 
we  were  married.  I  grew  tired  of  the  girl  at  last,  and 
thinking  I  was  bound  to  her  by  no  lawful  ties,  I  left  her. 
You  are  too  young  and  innocent  to  understand  such  wicked- 
ness. I  was  dissipated;  my  companions  were  bad  men  who 
exerted  an  evil  influence  over  me.  My  brother  heard  of 
my  approaching  marriage  with  you,  and  came  immediately 
to  America.  He  had  learned  from  Tremaine  that  I  was 
not  free  to  marry.  You  cannot  think  what  a  shock  it  was 
to  me,  when  I  found  I  had  no  right  to  marry  you. 
You  cannot  think  of  how  I  have  suffered  in  thinking  of 
you — of  the  disgrace  and  shame  I  have  brought  upon 
you.  I  know  that  all  the  town  is  talking  of  your  marriage. 
Oh,  Heaven !  to  think  I  have  no  right  to  call  you  mine !" 
His  voice  was  broken  and  his  head  bowed  upon  his  hands. 
"Hate  me,  despise  me.  I  am  not  worthy  of  your  lightest 
thought." 

Dora  sat  as  one  dazed.  He  ivas  married.  She  whom  all 
the  town  had  envied,  talked  about,  wondered  over,  was  a 
deceived  woman,  a  cast-off,  despised  thing.  She  could  see 
the  whole  world  pointing  at  her  with  mocking  fingers.  For 
the  moment  even  so  petty  a  thing  as  the  thought  of  Maud 
Prunell's  scorn  came  before  her.  It  did  not  occur  to  her 
that  she  was  now  free  to  marry  the  man  she  loved.  Nothing 
but  the  shame  and  disgrace  were  before  her.  She  even 
thought  of  the  grand  church  wedding  that  would  never  be 
consummated,  and  although  she  had  thought  of  it  with 
dread  but  a  few  hours  before,  now  that  its  glory  and 
splendor  were  never  to  be  realized,  her  heart  rebelled.  A 
strange  girl,  you  will  say.    Not  so  strange  after  all.    Hu- 


Lord  Carnleigh  Writes  Dora.  89 

man  nature  is  capricious.  We  all  have  these  petty  un- 
expressed thoughts,  even  in  the  midst  of  some  great  sor- 
row. The  horror  of  the  whole  thing  seemed  to  dawn  upon 
her  slowly.  This  man  who  had  pressed  kiss  after  kiss  upon 
her  lips,  who  had  drawn  her  to  his  heart,  who  had  poured 
v/ords  of  love  into  her  ears  but  a  few  moments  before,  be- 
longed to  another.  She  had  had  no  right  to  receive  his 
caresses.  Another  woman  was  his  wife.  She  had  not 
cared  for  his  caresses,  but  now  that  she  knew  they  had 
never  belonged  to  her,  her  pride  was  wounded.  This  other 
woman — what  was  she  like?  Had  he  ever  really  loved 
her?  She  glanced  towards  him.  His  head  was  still 
bowed  upon  his  hands.  Oh,  how  cruel  and  wicked  he 
had  been  to  deceive  her!  The  shame  of  it  all!  (That 
woman's  trait!  That  woman's  trait!)  She  burst  into  a 
flood  of  tears. 

Lord  Carnleigh  sprang  to  his  feet.  "Dora,  Dora,  dar- 
ling— don't,  don't.  I  have  made  you  suffer  enough,  God 
knows !  but  don't.  I  cannot  bear  to  see  your  tears."  He 
drew  a  chair  beside  her.  "Dora,  do  not  think  too  hard  of 
me.  I  know  I  am  bad  enough,  but  I  would  rather  have 
cut  off  my  right  hand  than  to  have  brought  this  trouble 
upon  you.  I  never  dreamed  that  I  was  not  free  to  marry. 
As  for  the  other  woman,  I  know  there  is  no  palliation  for 
my  deceiving  her  into  a  mock  marriage,  but  I  had  thought 
it  was  a  mock  marriage.  j\Iy  very  presence  now  must  seem 
an  insult  to  you,  but  oh,  darling,  don't  forget  that  I  love 
you.  If  you  will  only  listen  to  me !  I  want  to  make  some 
reparation.  Dora,  if  you  will  only  wait  a  little  while  for 
me,  we  can  keep  the  matter  quiet,  we  can  postpone  our 
wedding.  I  will  go  to  England,"  he  hesitated — he  loved 
the  girl — how  was  he  to  put  the  matter  delicately? — "and 
I  will  arrange  for  a  separation." 

She  struggled  from  him,  rising  to  her  feet  and  looking 
down  upon  him  with  intense  scorn. 

"You  think  to  right  matters  by  divorcing  your  lawful 
wife,  and  marrying  me — poor  Dora  Allene,  who  is  so  wild 
for  a  title,  that  she  will  stoop  to  any  sort  of  knavery  to 
get  one.  You  deceived  an  innocent  woman  into  what  you 
thought  was  a  mock  marriage,  and  now  you  are  base  enough 


90  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

to  wish  to  set  her  aside  to  marry  another  who  happens  to 
please  your  fancy  better.  I've  no  doubt  when  you  tire 
of  me,  I  should  be  set  aside  in  the  same  way.  You've  a 
perfect  right  to  think  what  you  please  of  us;  we  have 
fawned  upon  you  and  flattered  you  because  of  your  title, 
but  I  at  least  am  woman  enough  to  despise  such  a  way 
out  of  this  trouble  as  you  propose,  A  title  won  at  the  cost 
of  another  woman's  happiness  would  be  bought  too  dear. 
I  have  a  little  honor,  if  you  have  none." 

She  stood  before  him,  the  very  embodiment  of  justice 
and  right,  her  eyes  flashing,  her  bosom  heaving,  her  hands 
clenched,  her  little  foot  excitedly  tapping  the  floor. 

Lord  Carnleigh  groaned.  "You  are  too  hard  upon  me, 
Dora.  I  deserve  it,  but  it  cuts  to  the  heart,  coming  from 
you.  I  wanted  to  make  reparation,  but  it  was  because  I 
loved  you.  You  may  think  the  love  of  such  a  man  not 
worth  the  having.  I  am  wronging  one  woman  to  right 
another.  Ah,  God !  I  am  selfish.  It  is  not  a  boy  pleading 
to  you  with  the  first  flush  of  love — it  is  a  man  who  has 
seen  the  world,  been  of  the  world — a  man  not  worthy  of 
your  least  thought,  but  a  man  who  would  hold  you  as 
his  better  angel;  a  man  who  would  guard  you  as  the 
dearest,  most  precious  thing  on  earth  or  in  Heaven  itself 
— a  man  who  would  give  up  his  life  even — ^yes,  before 
Heaven,  I  swear  it,  for  your  dear  sake." 

The  appeal  in  his  voice  softened  her.  Her  mood  changed. 
A  woman  cannot  be  callous  long,  when  a  man  is  pleading 
his  love  for  her.  It  flatters  her  vanity,  if  it  does  not 
]  touch  her  heart. 

"I  surely  do  not  understand  you,"  she  said,  looking  at 
him  in  a  bewildered  way;  "you  cannot  think  it  right  to 
put  away  your  wife." 

"But,  Dora,"  he  answered  quickly,  seeing  his  advantage, 
"it  cannot  be  right  to  make  three  lives  wretched.  I  can 
never  be  happy  without  you.  I  love  you.  I  cannot  bear 
to  think  of  having  brought  this  shame  upon  you.  Let  me 
try  to  separate  myself  from  this  woman.  I  will  see  that 
they  are  well  provided  for,  she  and  the  child." 

Dora's  heart  seemed  to  stand  still.  "The  child!"  she 
gasped.    "Is  there  a  child?" 


Lord  Carnleigh  Writes  Dora.  91 

His  face  paled.  "Yes/'  he  answered  in  a  low  tone,  af- 
fected by  her  look  of  horror. 

"Oh,  you  could  not  be  so  cruel  as  to  desert  your  wife 
and  child !"  she  cried. 

"Do  not  speak  in  that  way,  darling.  I  do  not  mean  to 
be  cruel.  I  will  provide  for  them.  I  cannot  live  again 
with  this  woman.     I  do  not  love  her."' 

"You  loved  her  once." 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  that  is  past  and  gone.  Wicked  as 
you  may  think  it,  I  cannot  love  her  again.  I  love  you 
and  you  only.  I  will  try  to  be  all  you  desire.  Oh,  darling, 
listen  to  me.  If  by  law  I  can  put  away  this  woman  and  you 
will  marry  me,  I  swear  you  shall  never  regret  it." 

Dora  came  and  sat  beside  him,  placing  her  hand  upon 
his  arm  again.  This  was  a  terrible  thing  to  happen  to  a 
girl  of  nineteen,  but  this  girl  was  equal  to  the  emergency. 
The  divine  womanliness  in  her  came  to  the  front.  She 
M^as  no  longer  a  child,  but  a  woman.  She  had  never  cared 
for  him  before.  ISTow  his  sore  distress  appealed  to  her 
sympathetic  heart. 

"Lord  Carnleigh,"  she  said,  gently  but  lirmly,  "this 
is  a  fearful,  fearful  thing  that  has  come  upon  us  both. 
Nothing  so  terrible  as  this  has  ever  come  into  my  life  be- 
fore. At  first  I  was  very  angry  with  you.  For  a  moment 
I  almost  despised  you.  Now  I  do  not  feel  so.  I  am  sorry 
for  you,  I  want  to  help  you.  I  pity  you  in  your  love  for 
me,  but  oh,  forgive  me,  Alfred,  if  I  loved  you  so  dearly 
that  it  would  be  tearing  my  very  heart  strings  to  part  from 
you,  I  would  still  say  what  I  am  going  to  say  now.  There 
is  but  one  thing  for  you  to  do — be  true  to  your  wife  and 
child." 

"You  never  loved  me  or  you  would  not  counsel  so,"  he 
said  bitterl}^ 

"If  I  loved  3^ou  with  all  my  heart,"  she  answered,  her 
beautiful  face  glov/ing,  "I  could  not  counsel  otherwise.  It 
is  the  only  right  way.  ]\Iy  decision  is  unalterable.  Go 
hom^e  to  your  wife  and  child,  and  try  to  repair  the  wrong 
you  have  done  them.     Promise  me  you  will  do  this." 

He  shook  his  head  slowly.  "I  cannot  yet;  my  heart  is 
too  rebellious.    I  thought  I  was  free  to  love  you,  when  the 


92  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

love  of  your  beautiful  self  first  entered  my  heart,  and 
now  I  cannot  tear  your  image  from  its  place,  without  a 
pang,  as  you  would  have  me  do."  He  rose  to  his  feet. 
"But  I  will  go — I  weary  you.  It  is  of  little  use  to  prolong 
this  interview.  You  are  immovable.  You  are  very  noble, 
very  honorable.  Dora,"  he  said,  suddenly  holding  out  his 
arms  to  her,  "let  me  hold  you  to  my  heart,  just  once  again. 
It  cannot  be  wrong.  I  may  never  see  you  again.  I  have 
been  your  accepted  lover." 

She  stood  looking  at  him  with  great,  sorrowful  eyes. 
"I  cannot,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone ;  "that  is  the  place  of  but 
one  woman — your  wife." 

His  arms  dropped  heavily.  "You  are  cruel,  cruel,"  he 
murmured  brokenly,  turning  to  go.  Then  as  if  he  could 
not  leave  her  thus,  he  turned  and  bowed  reverently.  "May 
God  bless  you,  Dora.  You  are  a  good  woman.  You  are 
an  angel." 

So  they  had  prayed  God  to  bless  her,  both  her  lovers 
going  from  her  in  the  pain  and  anguish  of  a  hopeless 
love. 


Woman's  Love.  93 


CHAPTER  XL 

woman's  love. 

It  was  very  dark  as  Mrs.  Barnes  hurried  along  the 
street,  that  miserable  night  that  she  went  out  from  her 
home  in  anger  and  bitterness  of  soul.  A  light  snow  was 
falling,  and  her  feet,  covered  with  nothing  heavier  than 
silk  stockings  and  kid  slippers  with  light  soles,  were  soon 
wringing  wet.  But  she  gave  no  heed  to  the  fact.  She 
seemed  in  a  sort  of  daze.  Despite  the  intense  reality  of 
the  situation,  nothing  appeared  real.  She  moved  along 
as  in  a  dream.  The  lights  flashing  out  from  the  stately 
mansions  along  the  street,  showed  glimpses  of  beauty  and 
luxury  within,  but  it  seemed  to  her  as  though  she  had 
never  had  any  part  in  this  splendor  and  ease.  A  carriage 
stood  under  the  porte-cochere  of  the  Parkes  mansion.  Mrs. 
Kenilworth  Parkes,  the  Misses  Parkes  and  young  Jack 
Strainer  came  gaily  down  the  steps,  and  got  into  the  car- 
riage. How  little  they  dreamed  that  the  graceful,  queenly 
Mrs.  Barnes  was  hurrying  past  at  that  moment  on  foot, 
cold,  wet,  wretched  in  body  and  in  mind !  How  astonished 
Mrs.  Parkes  would  have  been,  at  the  cause  of  this  roman- 
tic woman's  wanderings !  To  run  out  of  the  house  because 
one's  husband  came  home  a  little  under  the  weather !  Of 
course  Mrs.  Parkes  was  not  possessed  of  Mrs.  Barnes'  re- 
fined sensibility  and  tender,  passionate  heart,  but  then  she 
possessed  a  much  more  comfortable  disposition,  at  least 
for  one's  self.  Had  she  but  all  the  money  she  desired,  she 
concerned  herself  but  little  about  aught  else.     There  are 


94  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

some  "women,  however,  whose  hearts  keep  ever  fresh  the 
glory  of  the  Eden  of  their  lives,  the  early  days  of  courtsliip 
and  of  marriage,  when  the  man  to  v/hom  they  have  given  np 
their  lives,  has  eyes  for  naught  but  his  beautiful  Eve.  Not 
that  Mrs.  Barnes  looked  at  life  through  the  romantic  eyes  of 
a  girl  of  sixteen ;  but  she  was  a  woman  of  intense  feelings ; 
proud,  high-strung,  sensitive,  capable  of  loving  with  her 
whole  soul.  In  her  thoughts  of  her  husband,  she  had  never 
wholly  divested  herself  of  her  ideal  of  him.  Even  though 
they  did  not  live  quite  happily — even  though  her  pride 
had  kept  the  thought  of  her  continued  love  for  him,  locked 
within  her  own  breast,  she  had  still  hoped  that  something 
might  bring  them  together  again.  But  now — now  that  she 
had  seen  him  in  such  a  condition;  she  was  grieved, 
shocked,  wholly  unnerved — all  her  most  cherished  ideals 
lay  crushed  to  the  earth,  trampled  beneath  the  snow  under 
her  wet,  cliilled  feet.  She  hurried  along  not  knowing 
whither  she  went,  the  light  flakes  of  snow  tapping  now 
and  then  softly  against  her  face,  as  though  gently  trying 
to  express  some  sympathy  with  her  misery.  Her  husband 
had  told  her  she  might  leave  the  house,  and  this  in  the 
presence  of  a  servant.  Her  whole  soul  revolted  at  the  pub- 
licity of  their  unhappiness.  Never  before  had  one  unkind 
work  been  exchanged  between  them  before  the  servants. 
She  did  not  take  into  consideration  that  his  condition  was 
to  blame  for  his  harshness.  She  had  never  before  seen  him 
in  that  condition.  He  had  been  very  careful  never  to  al- 
low her  to  see  him  so.  A  Turkish  bath  and  a  day's  sleej) 
had  enabled  him  to  appear  himself,  after  a  lengthened 
orgie.  Another  woman  might  not  have  taken  it  so  to  heart. 
She  shuddered  as  there  came  to  her  a  sort  of  kinship  of 
feeling  with  the  wife  of  the  drunken  wretch  whom  she 
had  found  so  revolting  some  days  before.  Her  pride  was 
humbled,  her  love  almost  dead  within  her.  As  she  moved 
swiftly  along,  the  world  seemed  a  blank — life,  death,  the 
present,  the  past,  the  future — but  one  thing  stood  out 
with  vivid  reality  before  her — her  utter  misery.  Then 
she  seemed  to  return  slowly  to  consciousness  as  though 
awakening  out  of  a  long,  lethargic  sleep.  The  scenes  of 
her  life  passed  in  rapid  succession  before  her,  as  such 


Woman's  Love.  95 

scenes  pass  before  the  mental  eye  of  a  drowning  man,  wlio 
lives  in  one  moment  his  whole  life  over  again — the  days 
of  her  innocent  childhood,  of  her  maidenhood,  when  life 
seemed  one  long,  happ^y  dream;  those  joyous,  delirious 
first  years  of  her  married  life — the  unreal,  unstable  present 
with  all  its  pomp  and  show,  and  glitter,  where  she  seemed 
ever  taking  part  in  some  continued  fancy  ball — looking 
out  at  the  world  from  behind  a  smiling,  painted  mask. 

"He  slioivs  when  he  removes  the  mash, 
A  face  that's  anything  hut  gay." 

Behind  the  scenes  one  became  speedily  disillusioned. 

She  turned  a  corner,  not  with  any  special  design.  She 
only  wanted  to  go  on  and  on  somewhere — she  knew  not 
where. 

Two  men  were  standing  under  the  street  lamp. 

"I  must  go,"  she  heard  one  say,  looking  at  his  watch. 
*'It  is  eight  o'clock.  Time  for  the  meeting  to  commence/' 
and  he  hurried  past  her. 

"Eight  o'clock" — but  one  hour  since  she  had  left  the 
house.  It  seemed  weeks,  months,  years.  She  followed  the 
man  swiftly.  She  vaguely  wondered  who  he  was,  what 
were  his  interests.  The  man  walked  very  fast.  He  seemed 
glowing  with  health  and  vigor.  He  stopped  presently  in 
front  of  a  small  frame  building,  and  pushed  open  the  door. 
For  a  moment  his  form  was  keenly  outlined  against  the 
darkness,  as  the  light  shone  upon  him — then  the  door 
closed  behind  him,  and  he  was  shut  from  view.  She  hur- 
ried forward  and  stopped  before  the  door  which  had  closed 
upon  him.  It  was  the  entrance  to  a  small  frame  church. 
She  pushed  open  the  door  and  looked  in.  There  was  a 
narrow  vestibule  covered  with  oilcloth.  There  were  two 
inner  swinging  doors,  covered  with  green  baize.  Upon  one 
was  a  large  placard: 

THE   EEV.   CHARLES   MOORE   GIVES  A 
TEMPERANCE  TALK  TO-NIGHT. 

Come  One  and  All,.     Everybody  Welcome, 


96  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

She  stepped  into  the  vestibule^  with  a  sarcastic  smile 
upon  her  face.  Surely  she  needed  a  temperance  talk !  They 
were  singing  inside.  She  paused  before  the  green  doors. 
Presently  the  singing  ceased,  then  came  a  rustling,  sub- 
dued sound,  a  shuffling  of  feet,  a  hemming  and  hawing  and 
finally  a  sort  of  stillness,  and  then  after  a  moment  the 
preacher's  voice  rose  in  prayer.  She  liked  the  voice.  It 
was  clear,  rounded,  full,  sympathetic.  It  was  not  the  sort 
of  prayer  the  Eev.  Doctor  Fincastle  made  every  Sabbath, 
as  he  stepped  forth  to  the  pulpit  with  his  easy  grace — a 
prayer  full  of  studied,  set  phrases,  a  sort  of  deifying  of 
the  Deity,  and  yet,  with  it  all  one  never  forgot  the  speaker. 
You  were  conscious  through  the  entire  delivery  of  the  Eev. 
Doctor  Fincastle.  It  seemed  as  though  he  stood  thus  with 
arms  uplifted  at  a  graceful  angle,  before  the  mirror  to 
practice  the  effect.  His  prayers  seemed  but  little  more  than 
a  pleasing  elocutionary  effort;  prepared  beforehand,  until 
each  word  was  pronounced  with  just  the  proper  amount  of 
emphasis ;  each  sentence  was  properly  inllected,  the  whole 
prayer  delivered  so  correctly,  it  left  nothing  more  to  be 
desired.  The  beautiful  Mrs.  Barnes  who  rode  in  her  car- 
riage every  Sabbath  to  the  massive  stone  church,  which 
seemed  to  lift  its  tower  proudly  in  the  air,  as  if  to  say,  "I 
am  great  and  powerful,  let  none  but  the  wealthy  enter  in 
at  my  doors;  let  not  the  poor,  nor  the  halt,  nor  the  lame, 
nor  the  blind  defile  my  sanctuary,"  found  nothing  more 
to  be  desired  in  a  prayer  of  the  Eev.  Doctor  Fincastle's 
making.  But  in  the  heart  of  this  troubled  woman,  who 
stood  outside  this  plain  little  church,  on  this  cold  November 
night,  a  prayer  of  his  making  would  have  awakened  not 
one  responsive  chord.  Not  so  this  other  prayer — it  was 
not  eloquent,  it  was  earnest — the  voice  was  thrilling.  The 
man  seemed  to  go,  although  reverently,  yet  boldly  to  the 
very  Throne  of  God.  He  seemed  to  lay  the  burdens,  the 
sins,  the  troubles,  the  heart-aches  of  all  mankind  at  the 
very  feet  of  his  Maker.  He  seemed  to  have  torn  aside  the 
veil  into  the  very  Holy  of  Holies,  the  light  from  that  inner 
sanctuary  emanating  from  him  to  those  around.  Not  to 
him,  as  to  the  church  of  the  Laodiceans  could  be  written, 
"So  then  because  thou  art  lukewarm  and  neither  cold  nor 


Woman's  Love.  97 

hot,  I  will  spew  three  out  of  my  mouth."  His  words  were 
full  of  fire  and  intensity.  And  yet  this  prayer  was  very; 
human  and  tender.  It  reached  and  comprehended  the  low- 
est, the  vilest  sinner.  It  was  not  too  deep  for  the  weakest 
understanding.  It  was  the  sort  of  prayer  that  keeps  the 
senses  keenly  alert,  and  sets  the  most  hardened  to  a  sort 
of  restless  thinking.  As  he  prayed,  it  seemed  to  glow  and 
intensify,  until  it  burned  into  the  hearts  of  his  hearers, 
like  the  letters  upon  the  wall,  the  "Mene,  Mene,  Tekel,  Up- 
harsin"  of  Belshazzar's  feast.  The  listener  outside 
heaved  a  sort  of  sigh,  v/hen  she  heard  the  fervent  "Amen." 
She  pushed  open  the  door.  There  was  that  sort  of  rustling 
sound  amongst  the  congregation,  that  follows  the  making 
of  a  prayer,  a  settling  into  seats,  a  relaxation  of  the  tensity 
in  which  the  nerves  and  muscles  have  been  kept.  She  en- 
tered the  room.  An  usher  stepped  forward  to  show  her  to 
a  seat,  but  she  shook  her  head  and  slipped  into  a  pew  near 
the  big  base-burner  stove,  that  looked  glowingly  comfort- 
able. She  did  not  know  until  she  reached  a  warm  place 
hov,"  chilled  she  was,  and  she  shivered  for  some  moments 
before  a  sense  of  warmth  came  to  her.  Then  she  sat  quiet, 
almost  drowsy  with  mere  animal  enjoyment  of  the  light, 
warmth  and  sense  of  relief  at  being  shut  in  from  the  dark- 
ness and  cold  without.  After  a  time  she  began  to  look  about 
her.  The  church  was  not  more  than  two-thirds  full;  she 
remembered  afterwards  experiencing  a  feeling  of  disap- 
pointment that  there  were  so  few  to  hear  that  prayer.  Two 
or  three  people  turned  and  looked  at  her  curiously,  but  she 
gave  them  no  heed.  She  threw  back  her  hood  and  sat  with 
her  beautiful  head  uncovered.  Her  hair  was  pushed  back 
from  her  low,  white  forehead  and  gathered  into  a  knot 
at  the  back.  Soft,  natural  curls  strayed  round  her  tem- 
ples and  at  the  nape  of  her  neck.  Few  persons  could  for- 
bear looking  twice  at  her  exquisite  Madonna-like  face.  As 
interested  as  she  had  been  in  the  prayer,  she  had  as  yet 
given  no  special  notice  to  the  speaker.  He  had  com- 
menced his  talk,  but  she  did  not  for  some  time  pay  any 
heed  to  what  he  said.  Xow  she  turned  and  looked  at  him. 
At  first  she  felt  disappointed.  The  maker  of  such  a 
prayer  should  have  been  more  refined,  more  noble-looking. 


98  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

He  was  a  short,  thick-set  man,  with  a  heavy  beard  and 
round,  bright,  restless  eyes.  He  was  quick,  alert,  nervous 
in  his  movements.  He  seemed  all  in  earnest  and  on  fire 
with  energy  and  zeal.  Presently  she  forgot  the  speaker, 
and  gave  close  heed  to  what  he  was  saying. 

"Woe  unto  him  that  giveth  his  neighbor  drink,  that 
putteth  the  bottle  to  him,  that  maketh  him  drunken."  At 
another  time  she  might  have  been  tempted  to  smile  at  the 
emphasis  with  which  he  repeated  the  passage.  These 
people  were  always  disposed  to  be  fanatical,  and  then 
she  had  heard  these  temperance  talks  so  often. 

"As  I  repeat  this  passage  of  scripture,  your  thoughts 
instantly  revert  to  those  gilded  halls  of  sin,  those  dens  of 
iniquity  where  liquor  is  dealt  out  to  the  trembling,  thirst- 
ing v/retchcs  who  throng  such  resorts;  where  flows  with 
prodigality  that  fiery  fluid  that  'Steals  away  men's  brains.'' 
'Vfoe  unto  him  that  giveth  his  neighbor  drink' — the  curse 
of  the  Almighty  is  upon  such  places.  And  yet  say  3^ou, 
they  thrive,  the  keepers  of  them  live  in  palaces  and  drive 
in  chariots;  what  matters  it  to  them  if  the  curse  of  the 
Lord  be  upon  them?  What  matters  to  them  the  cry  that 
goes  up  from  the  mouth  of  the  wives  and  children  of  their 
victims.  'How  long,  oh,  Lord,  how  long  ?'  They  prosper, 
they  grow  in  might  in  the  land  wherein  they  dwell.  Surely 
the  Lord  hath  forgotten  his  curse.  Not  so,  my  hearers; 
as  long  as  the  world  stands,  there  will  be  sin  and  sin  in 
silken  garments,  with  prosperous  mien ;  but  is  the  prosper- 
ity worth  the  awful  price  paid  for  it  ?  'V\"hat  shall  it  profit 
a  man,  if  he  gain  the  whole  world,  and  lose  his  own  soul  ?' 
Look  at  the  desolate  homes,  the  povert3'-strickcn  families, 
the  wretched  victims  lying  about  the  streets,  or  filling  or.r 
jails  and  as3dums. 

"Go  to  the  Home  for  Inebriates  and  see  the  men  pacing 
up  and  down  the  corridors,  like  caged  beasts;  their  crav- 
ings for  drink  eating  at  their  innermost  lives  like  the 
vulture  at  the  vitals  of  Prometheus,  wild,  almost  insane 
for  drink,  yet  cursing  the  men  at  whose  hands  they  ob- 
tain it.  Is  it  worth  the  price  of  the  few  paltry  baubles 
wealth  can  give  in  exchange,  for  the  curses  and  execra- 
tions of  all  maukind?    No,  a  thousand  times  no.    I  had 


Woman's  Love.  99 

rather  be  a  door-keeper  in  the  house  of  my  God  than  to 
dwell  in  the  tents  of  the  wicked.  Bnt  there  is  another 
phase  of  this  temperance  qnestion— a  phase  too  seldom 
and  too  lightly  considered.  "Woe  unto  him  that  giveth 
his  neighbors  drink,  that  putteth  the  bottle  to  him.'  The 
word  bottle  hath  a  vulgar  sound — it  suggests  the  ale-house 
keeper — the  drunken  wretch  who  stands  at  the  bar  and 
with  trembling  hands  pours  the  damnable  fluid  down  his 
already  blistered  throat.  And  yet,  not  alone  upon  the 
ale-house  keeper  does  the  curse  descend.  There  are  others 
as  culpable  as  he — perhaps  even  more  so ;  for  of  him  unto 
whom  the  most  is  given  shall  the  most  be  required.  These 
others  are  often  unconscious  transgressors — nevertheless  are 
they  culpable  before  God.  They  are  the  beautiful  queens 
of  the  magnificent  homes  that  line  our  fashionable  streets, 
who  serve  liquor  upon  their  own  tables,  who  countenance, 
nay  even  encourage,  the  use  of  it  in  their  husbands,  and 
growing  sons  and  daughters.  Who  thinks  of  classing  these 
women  with  ale-house  keepers  and  wine-bibbers? 

"Who  preaches  temperance  sermons  to  the  rich  and  great, 
the  dwellers  in  mansions  of  stone,  the  wearers  of  purple 
and  tine  linen?  We  hear  of  drunkards,  but  they  are  the 
wretches  who  stumble  about  the  streets,  who  lie  in  the 
gutters,  who  stand  before  you  in  rags  and  tatters,  and 
blurt  out  the  story  of  their  shame  and  wretchedness,  too 
miserable,  too  fallen  to  have  any  false  pride  at  the  tell- 
ing thereof.  You  cannot  preach  a  temperance  sermon  to 
the  man  whose  pride  closes  your  lips,  whose  family  speak 
of  his  weakness  as  a  'little  indiscretion.'  Such  people  are 
not  to  be  pitied,  you  think?  They  are  to  be  pitied  with, 
infinite  pity.  They  suffer  intensely.  But  if  we  may  not 
preach  temperance  to  them,  we  may  preach  it  to  the  wives, 
mothers  and  daughters  of  such  men.  'Woe  unto  him  that 
giveth  his  neighbor  drink.'  Oh,  mother,  look  at  that  beau- 
tiful boy  seated  at  your  family  board !  JFIow  dare  you  pour 
for  him  a  glass  of  liquor?  Hov/  dare  you  encourage  him 
in  a  taste  that  may  be  to  the  working  of  his  eternal  dam- 
nation. I  am  bigoted,  fanatical?  Your  boy  will  never 
be  a  drunkard  if  he  understands  the  moderate  use  of  liquor? 
He  is  less  likely  to  care  for  it,  if  the  use  of  it  be  a  common, 


loo  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

everyday  occurrence,  than  if  lie  were  obliged  when  older 
to  steal  away  to  some  worse  place  to  get  it?  A  wise  con- 
clusion truly,  and  a  logical  one.  So  should  the  machinist 
reason — it  were  better  that  I  cut  off  my  hand  now  than 
to  go  to  work  some  day  and  have  it  torn  from  me,  by  the 
macliinery.  But  this  is  not  your  reason.  It  is  fashion- 
able.    Your  neighbor  does  it. 

"It  would  not  do  to  be  less  fashionable  than  your  neigh- 
bor. Wives,  beware  how  you  encourage  a  kind  husband 
and  father  in  this  habit.  Young  woman,  beware  how  you 
persuade  that  young  man  to  drink  with  you.  It  may  be 
his  first  glass.  It  may  be  the  means  of  his  eternal  de- 
struction. Mothers,  beware  how  you  put  a  temptation  into 
the  hands  of  your  cliildren.  In  their  latter  days  they  may 
heap  curses  instead  of  blessings  upon  your  head.  Oh,  wife, 
oh,  mother,  oh,  daughter — perhaps  the  very  one  in  whom 
you  trust,  upon  whom  you  lean,  to  whom  you  look,  is  daily 
and  continually  fighting  the  very  temptation  you  lay  be- 
fore— you  urge  upon  him.  I  say  unto  you  beware.  A 
charming  woman  once  said  to  me,  indignant  with  mv 
remonstrance  with  her  for  having  wine  at  a  dinner  party, 
*A  gentleman  understands  the  use  of  liquor.  He  never 
makes  a  beast  of  himself.'  God  have  pity  upon  our  frailty ! 
We  are  creatures  of  impulse  and  creatures  of  appetite. 
Even  the  best,  the  noblest  man  among  us,  is  constantly 
fighting  the  devil,  as  he  comes  to  him  in  the  form  of  some 
temptation,  which  is  his  besetting  sin,  and  only  the  grace 
of  God  can  enable  him  to  keep  the  Evil  One  at  bay.  Are 
we,  any  of  us,  secure  from  temptation,  from  a  downright 
fall  into  sin?  Did  not  Peter  deny  his  Lord  thrice,  and 
that  too  at  an  hour  when  he  most  needed  his  support  and 
help,  and  that  too,  after  he  had  said  (and  there  is  no  doubt 
that  he  meant  it  at  the  time),  'Though  I  should  die  with 
thee,  yet  will  I  not  deny  tliee.'  When  Elijah  prophesied 
unto  Hazael,  the  things  that  would  come  to  pass,  the  evils 
that  he  should  commit  in  Syria,  he  answered  with  astonish- 
ment and  indignation,  'Is  thy  servant  a  dog,  that  he  should 
do  this  great  thing?'  We  are  weak,  we  are  frail.  Only  a 
merciful  Saviour  can  uphold  us,  only  a  constant  praying 
can  save  from  falling.    But  see  that  ye  be  not  tempters. 


Woman's  Love.  lOi 

Hear  the  word  of  the  Lord  written  in  His  Holy  Book, 
Matthew  eighteenth  chapter  and  seventh  verse.  'Woe  unto 
the  world  because  of  offences,  for  it  must  needs  be  that 
offences  come,  but  woe  unto  that  man  by  whom  the  offence 
Cometh.' " 

Mrs.  Barnes  heard  not  another  word,  although  the  "tem- 
perance talk"  lasted  some  time  longer.  She  became  so 
completely  absorbed  with  her  own  thoughts,  thoughts 
stirred  within  her  by  this  earnest  man,  who  stood  appar- 
ently wasting  time  and  strength  talking  to  such  a  mere 
handful  of  people.  Not  so.  The  seed  had  fallen  upon 
fruitful  ground,  and  might  bring  forth  fruit  an  hundred- 
fold. At  first  she  felt  astonished,  as  she  listened,  nay  al- 
most angeretl.  Never  before  had  the  matter  presented  it- 
self to  Sier  mind  in  that  light.  The  idea  that  she,  in 
having  liquor  upon  her  table,  was  in  the  least  culpable  or 
to  blame  for  any  of  her  husband's  misdoings.  It  seemed 
so  absurd.  Did  he  not  have  mind  enough  of  his  own  to 
be  able  to  drink  in  moderation  ?  She  had  been  accustomed 
to  wine-drinking  from  her  childhood.  Her  relatives  were 
Southern  people — people  fond  of  ease  and  luxury  and  the 
good  things  of  life,  and  yet,  she  could  not  remember  an 
immoderate  user  of  liquor  among  them.  Always  a  dearly 
cherished  recollection  of  hers  was  the  thought  of  how  her 
grandmother,  a  stately  old  lady  full  of  the  pride  of  birth 
(a  pride  of  which  the  iVUencs,  their  coat  of  arms  notwith- 
standing, had  not  the  least  conception),  and  yet  temper- 
ing it  with  a  gracious  sweetness  to  all,  used  to  appear, 
when  callers  came  to  that  delightful  old  Virginia  home- 
stead, Carmona  Hall.  What  a  beautiful  picture  her 
grandmother  made,  in  her  black  satin  dress,  with  white 
lace  folded  across  her  breast,  a  lace  cap  upon  her  white 
hair,  dispensing  wine  and  wafers,  with  her  own  slim,  veined, 
aristocratic  hands.  Among  the  most  delightful  remem- 
brances vrere  those  of  the  times  spent  about  the  massive 
mahogany  table,  loaded  down  in  old-time  style,  not  only 
with  costly  plate  and  elegant  china,  but  with  all  manner  of 
goodly  things  to  tempt  the  appetite.  Then  the  old,  black 
dining-room  servant,  with  his  gray  hair  and  important 
manner ;  with  what  a  delightful  flourish  he  poured  the  wine. 


102  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

Then  there  was  Uncle  Eowsey,  who  was  always  repeating 
poetry ;  how  he  would  hold  up  his  glass,  as  he  did  so  many, 
many  times  (she  seemed  to  see  and  hear  it  all  now),  and 
say  in  his  rich,  heavy  voice : 

"Old  wine  to  drink; 
Ay,  give  the  slippery  juice 
That  drippeth  from  the  grape  thrown  loose 
Within  the  tun; 
PlucJced  from  heneath  the  cliff 
Of  sunny-sided  Teneriffe, 
And  ripened  'neath  the  hlinJc 
Of  India's  sun." 

It  was  the  flavor  of  the  old  regime  about  Mrs..  Barnes 
that  distinguished  her  from  many  of  the  circle  in  which 
she  moved.  A  certain  sweet,  courtly,  old-time  grace  was 
hers  that  the  parvenu  element  of  society  could  neither  beg, 
borrow  nor  buy,  however  much  money  might  enable  it  to 
purchase  a  semblance  of  it,  in  the  shape  of  a  course  of 
lessons  in  Delsarte. 

For  Mrs.  Barnes  there  was  a  delight  in  the  very  thought 
of  those  old  days.  The  use  of  wine  upon  her  table  had  not 
been  with  her  the  following  of  a  fasliion — it  had  been  the 
following  of  an  established  custom.  A  glass  of  wine  was 
a  beautiful  thing,  a  poem  in  itself.  And  nov/  to  have  the 
poetr}^  the  beauty  of  a  social  glass  thrust  aside  in  this 
manner,  to  have  the  use  of  liquor  in  a  social  way  spoken  of 
so  harshly,  so  bluntly;  to  have  a  hostess  spoken  of  as  a 
temptress,  to  class  her  with  the  keeper  of  an  ale-house !  It 
was  shocking,  appalling,  hideous.  Why  she  herself  was 
interested  in  the  temperance  cjuestion.  There  was  nothing 
too  much  to  be  said  against  intoxication.  Doctor  Fincastle 
too,  took  an  interest  in  the  question.  He  preached  against 
intemperance,  and  yet  he  never  assumed  such  fanaticism 
as  this.  What  right  had  that  man  to  dictate  to  people 
as  to  what  they  should  do  in  their  own  homes?  Why 
couldn't  he  confine  his  talk  v\^ithin  proper  bounds  ?  He  was 
light  in  his  estimate  of  himself;  he  was  a  fanatic  and  a 
bigot. 


Woman's  Love.  103 

Then  came  the  thought  of  her  husband  standing  before 
her  in  the  degradation  of  his  manhood,  looking  no  better 
in  liis  intoxicated  state,  save  for  the  texture  of  the  cloth- 
ing he  wore,  than  the  miserable  creature  whose  family 
she  had  endeavored  to  aid  and  who  had  filled  her  so  with 
disgust.  Her  feelings  had  been  against  her  husband; 
never  before  did  she  dream  of  associating  his  downfall  with 
herself.  And  Vv'as  she  to  blame  ?  Merciful  Heaven  forbid  ! 
But  then  he  had  been  used  to  wine  as  had  she,  from  child- 
hood, as  a  part  of  his  daily  dinner — was  she  to  be  found 
guilty  because  he  used  no  discretion,  forgot  his  manhood 
and  self-respect  and  made  of  himself  such  a  thing  as  she 
had  seen  this  night? 

"Oh,  wife;  oh,  mother;  oh,  daughter!"  the  words  came 
to  her  again  and  again.  They  rang  in  her  ears.  "Per- 
haps the  very  one  in  whom  you  trust,  upon  whom  you 
lean,  unto  whom  you  look  is  daily,  continually  lighting  the 
very  temptation  you  lay  before  him — you  urge  upon  him." 
Was  it  possible  that  Courtney  found  liquor  a  terrible 
temptation  ?  Did  she  pander  to  his  taste  for  it,  by  having 
it  upon  her  table  ?  Oh,  God !  There  was  reality  enough 
about  this  thought.  The  poetry,  the  ideality  dwindled 
away  before  the  hideousness  of  this  real  thing.  She  began 
to  tremble,  to  hate  herself.  Her  old  yearning  for  her  hus- 
band returned.  That  he  should  be  degraded  by  this — 
Courtney,  with  his  manly  strength,  his  splendid  physique, 
his  naturally  good,  tender  heart,  v/ho  despite  all  was,  in 
her  innermost  heart  of  hearts,  her  idol — and  that  she 
should  even  in  the  least  degree  assist  in  his  downfall,  she 
who  should  uplift!  God  have  mercy  upon  her!  "Woe 
unto  him  by  whom  the  offence  cometh."  She  became  hate- 
ful in  her  own  eyes.  She  did  not  think  that  if  she  had 
sinned,  it  had  been  an  unconscious  sinning.  Like  all  ex- 
tremely sensitive  people,  her  feelings  were  easily  moved. 
She  blamed  herself  more  than  she  had  at  first  blamed  him. 
She  would  go  home.  She  would  tell  him  it  had  been  her 
fault.  She  would  try  to  help  him  overcome  this  habit. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  this  night's  experience  might  be  the  best 
thing  that  had  ever  happened  to  either  of  them,  perhaps 
their  old  love  might  return — those  old,  happy  days.      A 


104  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

thrill  passed  through  her  whole  being — the  color  came  into 
her  beautiful  face — a  great  hope  filled  her  breast.  The  air 
of  the  church  felt  close  and  stifling.  She  drew  her  hood 
over  her  head  and  rose  to  go.  A  man  stood  at  the  outer 
door  of  the  church.  He  doffed  his  hat  as  she  passed  him. 
It  was  Eogers,  the  coachman.  "Excuse  me,  Mrs.  Barnes, 
but  I  thought  it  wasn't  quite  safe  for  you  to  go  alone,  so 
I  followed  3^ou — I  hope  you  won't  take  no  offence." 

She  smiled  graciously.  "ISTo,  Eogers — it  was  kind  of 
you,  thank  you.    I  am  going  home  now." 

"Shall  I  call  a  cab,  ma'am  ?    There's  a  stable  close  by." 

"No — 0,"  then  thinking  of  her  slippers,  "well,  yes — you 
may,"  and  Eogers  was  off  in  a  twinkling.  He  came  back 
presently  with  a  somewhat  dilapidated  coach,  which  he 
explained  was  "all  that  vaiz  in,"  and  shutting  his  mistress 
inside,  he  mounted  beside  the  driver.  Mrs.  Barnes  rolled 
home  along  the  same  streets  in  a  very  different  frame  of 
mind  from  that  which  had  possessed  her  but  a  short  time 
before. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  when  she  reached  the  house.  She 
threw  back  her  hood  as  she  entered  the  hall,  and  stood 
still  a  moment  irresolutely.  Then  she  pushed  aside  the 
heavy  hanging.  The  library  was  darkened.  No  one  was 
there.  She  turned  back  and  stood  for  a  moment  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairwa.y,  making  a  graceful  picture,  with  her 
tall  form  wrapped  in  the  long  opera  cloak,  her  head  bent 
in  thought.  Eichards,  the  butler,  was  coming  slowly  down 
the  stairs. 

"Where  is  your  master,  Eichards?"  she  asked,  lifting 
her  head. 

Eichards  hesitated  and  looked  nervous. 

"Please,  Mrs.  Barnes,  he's  in  the  front  room;  but  if 
you  will  excuse  me  for  saying  so,  I  wouldn't  go  there, 
ma'am." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily.  "I  did  not  ask  your  ad- 
vice, Eichards,"  and  she  went  on  upstairs. 

The  light  was  burning  low  in  the  upper  hall,  and  still 
lower  in  the  large  front  room.  The  light  from  the  bright 
wood  fire  in  the  grate  made  flickering,  dancing  shadows 
on  the  wall.     She  stood  still  in  the  centre  of  the  room. 


Woman's  Love. 


105 


Courtney  Had  thrown  himself  upon  a  wide,  tnirkish  couch 
in  one  corner,  and  lay  there  in  a  heavy  slumber.  His 
breathing  was  hard  and  labored,  and  now  and  then  he 
uttered  a  sort  of  groan.  At  first  a  feeling  of  revulsion 
came  over  her,  a  sense  of  disgust,  then  her  heart  went  out 
to  him;  her  old  love  came  over  her  again.  She  looked  at 
his  broad  shoulders  with  a  feeling  of  pride  in  his  strength 
and  beauty,  and  of  pity  for  his  helplessness  and  degrada- 
tion. She  went  over  to  the  couch  and  kneeled  down  be- 
side him.  His  hands  and  face  looked  purple  and  swollen 
in  the  flickering  light.  She  pushed  back  the  hair  from  his 
forehead  gently.  The  light  touch  did  not  waken  him.  He 
slept  on  heavily.  She  kneeled  thus  with  her  hand  upon 
his  forehead  a  long  time.  The  clock  chimed  out  ten,  then 
eleven — the  fire  had  almost  died  out.  She  heard  the  serv- 
ants lock  the  doors  and  windows  and  go  to  bed  for  the 
night.  Someone  came  through  the  upper  hall  and  paused 
at  the  door,  as  if  in  doubt,  then  went  softl}^  awa}^  She 
arose  and  closed  the  door.  Then  she  came  back  and  took 
up  her  former  position.  Her  long  cloak  was  still  about  her 
shoulders,  she  had  forgotten  to  remove  it.  As  she  kneeled 
at  the  side  of  the  couch  her  heart  was  lifted  in  prayer,  the 
first  genuine  prayer  that  had  gone  out  from  her  heart  for 
years.  True  her  lips  had  repeated  time  and  again  the 
Lord's  prayer,  as  she  stood  in  her  pew  at  the  begi.ining  of 
service,  each  Sabbath  morning.  "Forgive  us  our  debts, 
as  we  forgive  our  debtors" — the  beautiful  Mrs.  Barnes  who 
repeated  these  words,  had  no  realization  of  debts  to  be  for- 
given or  debtors  to  forgive.  This  softened,  tender,  peni- 
tent woman  kneeling  here,  crying  out  in  the  agony  of 
her  soul  against  herself  knew  what  that  prayer  meant,  her 
heart  cried  out  the  words  of  itself.  She  seemed  burdened 
down  with  a  consciousness  of  sins  both  of  omission  and 
commission.  The  clock  struck  twelve ;  as  the  hands  moved 
on  towards  the  half  hour,  Courtney  wakened  with  a  sort 
of  cry. 

"God,"  he  cried,  partly  raising  and  dropping  back  again. 
"I'm  burning  with  thirst.     Get  me  some  whiskey." 

She  rose  and  turned  up  the  light.  There  was  a  bottle 
of  whiskey  and  a  small  glass  on  a  table  near  the  door.    She 


io6  A  Girl  of  Chicasfo 


fc> 


poured  out  a  little  and  brought  it  to  him.  He  looked  at 
her  a  moment  curiously,  with  eyes  blinking  in  the  sudden 
transition  from  darkness  to  light.  Then  he  seized  the 
glass  and  conveyed  it  to  his  lips  with  a  trembling  hand. 
He  watched  her  very  closely,  as  she  carried  the  glass  back 
to  the  table,  and  then  came  slowly  towards  him. 

"Helen,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "how  did  you  get  here,  in 
this  place?" 

She  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  couch,  put  her  hand 
upon  his  forehead,  smoothing  it  gently. 

"This  place  is  your  home,  my  dear." 

He  looked  about  him  in  a  wondering  sort  of  way.  "But 
how  the  deuce  did  I  happen  to  come  home  in  such  a  con- 
dition?" 

"Eogers  said  you  insisted  upon  coming,  but  why  shouldn't 
you?    It  is  your  own  home." 

"Oh,  I  remember,  I  remember,"  he  said  slowly,  not 
answering  her  question.  Then  after  a  pause,  looking  up 
suddenly,  "Helen,  I  spoke  harshly  to  you  awhile  ago.  I 
sent  you  from  the  house,  I  was  a  brute.  I  don't  deserve 
to  be  forgiven,  but  I  was  not  myself.  I  knew  what  I  was 
saying,  but  if  I  had  been  in  a  different  condition  I  never 
would  have  acted  as  I  did.  I  knew  enough  to  tell  Eogers 
to  follow  you.  I  dared  not  trust  you  on  the  street  alone, 
but  my  pride  prevented  me  from  begging  you  to  return. 
Then  my  condition  overcame  my  feelings.  I  got  upstairs 
somehow,  and  fell  asleep  upon  the  lounge.  But  you,  why 
are  you  here?  I  should  think,"  he  said  turning  his  face 
from  her,  "you  would  so  utterly  despise  me,  you  would 
never  come  near  me  again." 

"I  despise  you,  Courtney  ?"  Her  voice  trembled.  "Please 
do  not  say  that.  I  am  too  uuwortlw,  too  much  at  fault 
myself  to  blame  you  entirely.  Courtney  dear,  when  I 
left  the  house  to-night,  I  was  very  unhappy.  I  wandered 
down  the  street  aimlessly,  wretched  in  body  and  mind.  I 
came  to  the  door  of  a  little  church.  I  cannot  tell  what 
force  impelled  me,  but  I  went  in.  Dear,  I  felt  very  angry, 
very  unkindly  towards  you  when  I  went  in;  but  when  I 
came  out  I  was  a  different  woman.  The  speaker  gave  a 
little  temperance  talk — the  talk  was  to  me.    He  said  that 


Woman's  Love.  107 

the  man  who  succumbed  to  the  temptation  of  drinking;  in- 
toxicating liquors  was  not  half  as  culpable  as  the  vvoniau 
who  served  them  at  her  table.  I  rebelled  at  such  talk.  I  con- 
sidered it  nonsense.  Then  I  began  to  think  of  you.  I 
thought  that  perhaps  I  was  encouraging  the  taste  in  you; 
that  perhaps  liquor  might  be  a  terrible  temptation  to  you. 
1  never  dreamed  before  of  your  being  overcome  by  this 
habit,  as  I  have  seen  you  to-night.  My  heart  softened  to- 
wards you.  I  despised  myself.  I  hurried  home.  I  felt 
so  relieved  to  find  you  here.  Oh,  darling,  I  shall  never 
again  serve  liquor  upon  my  table.  I  shall  never  again  put 
such  temptation  in  your  way."' 

"In  my  way,"  he  interrupted  with  a  bitter  laugh,  "if 
I'm  not  man  enough  to  resist " 

"Sh !"  she  put  her  hand  over  his  mouth.  "Do  not  say 
that,  Courtney.  We  can  none  of  us  tell  what  may  come  to 
pass.  It  is  not  that  you  are  not  man  enough — but  the 
habit  is  a  terrible  one  to  acquire.  If  you  have  not  formed 
it,  my  darling,  we  shall  try  to  keep  you  from  it,  and  if 
you  have  formed  it,  I  am  willing  to  do  anything,  every- 
thing to  help  you  to  overcome  it.  I  will  live  more  for 
you  than  I  have  done  in  the  past.  I  do  want  so  to  help  you. 
Courtney,  my  husband,  m"  dear,  dear  husband,"  her  voice 
grew  very  passionate  and  tender,  "what  is  life  without 

love?     If  only  our  old  love  would  come  to  us  again " 

she  laid  her  face  down  against  his  and  her  tears  rained 
down  upon  him. 

Oh,  woman's  love !  Oh,  woman's  love !  In  his  hour  of 
shame  and  degradation  her  heart  went  out  to  him,  and  her 
old  love  for  him  returned. 

He  lifted  her  gently  from  him  and  raised  himself  to 
a  sitting  posture. 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  held  her  to  his  heart,  kiss- 
ing the  tears  from  her  cheek.  His  head  grew  clear  in  an 
instant. 

"Don't,  don't,  my  darling  wife.  I  am  not  worthy  of 
these  tears.  And  you  blame  yourself  for  my  shortcomings, 
and  you  love  me  still,  after  all  that  has  happened;  after 
my  neglect  of  you.  You  shall  never  complain  of  that 
neglect  again.     Let  our  old  love  return?     Ah,  darling,  I 


io8  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

shall  try  to  prove  to  you  that  that  love  has  never  gone 
from  my  heart.  I  will  indeed  strive  to  be  a  better  man 
for  your  dear  sake.  Helen,  dear  girl,  how  good  yon  are — 
how  dear  to  me !" 

Talk  not  of  the  happiness  of  lovers,  revelling  in  the  joy 
of  their  new-born  love.  There  is  nothing  to  compare  with 
the  reuniting  of  the  severed  hearts  of  man  and  wife. 


Lord  Carnleigh  Decides.  109 


CHAPTER  XII. 

LORD  CAEXLEIGH  DECIDES. 

"Chactas,  a  little  earth  thrown  upon  my  body,  will  place  a 
world  between  you  and  me,  and  will  deliver  you  forever  from 
the  weight  of  my  calamities." — Chateaubriand. 

"When"  Lord  Carnleigh  reached  the  Richelieu,  after  his 
interview  with  Dora  Allene,  it  was  five  o'clock,  lie  went 
straight  to  his  apartments  and  rang  for  his  valet. 

"Briggs,  tell  my  brother  I  do  not  wish  to  be  disturbed 
for  some  time.  I  wish  to  be  quite  alone,  do  you  under- 
stand ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  and  Briggs  went  out,  closing  the  door  after 
him.  His  master  threw  himself  into  a  chair.  It  was  dusk. 
He  looked  about  him.  The  room  was  full  of  ghostly 
shadows.  Objects,  which  in  the  full  glare  of  the  light, 
were  sources  of  comfort  and  pleasure,  assumed  now  a  for- 
midable appearance  and  seemed  to  menace  him  with  their 
heavy  blackness.  It  seemed  to  him  as  though  he  were 
in  a  mausoleum  filled  with  his  past  misdoings — and  that 
his  former  sins  were  rising  up  in  array  against  him.  His 
one  hope  had  been  this  beautiful  girl,  and  now  that  hope 
was  gone.  He  could  not  but  acknowledge  that  her  decision 
was  right.  She  was  good  and  noble,  and  for  that  very 
nobility  he  honored  and  loved  her  the  more.  To  go  back 
to  that  other  woman,  to  live  a  long,  dreary  life  with  her — 
even  the  thought  of  the  child  could  not  take  the  distaste 
of  such  a  life  from  him.  To  this  man  things  were  wholly 
good  or  wholly  bad.     There  was  no  medium.     Naturally 


no  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

sensitive,  quick-tempered,  susceptible,  he  had  taken  the 
wrong  way  at  first,  and  whereas  no  height  would  have  been 
too  lofty  for  him  to  attempt  its  attainment,  now  it  almost 
seemed  that  no  depths  had  been  too  low  for  him  to  stoop 
down  to  them.  So  when  came  a  desire  for  a  change,  when 
came  the  love  for  this  woman  into  his  heart,  he  had  deter- 
mined to  lead  a  different  life — and  now,  this  new-born  hope 
was  dead,  this  other  woman  had  arisen  between  them.  Not 
dreaming  that  his  marriage  with  her  was  valid,  he  had 
looked  upon  it  as  an  escapade  of  other  days,  one  of  the  past 
sins  to  be  put  away  and  forgotten  in  this  new  life  he  had 
laid  out  for  himself.  And  because  it  was  a  past  sin,  and  one 
he  thought  would  never  trouble  him  again,  his  heart  hard- 
ened towards  the  woman  who  destroyed  his  present  hopes 
of  happiness.  How  beautiful  Dora  had  looked  as  she  at 
first  scorned  him,  and  then  softened  in  her  tender,  womanly 
way !  Never  was  he  to  see  her  again.  Never  more  was 
he  to  clasp  her  to  his  breast.  He  rose  from  his  chair  and 
going  to  the  door  locked  it.  He  went  to  his  trunk  and  took 
something  from  it.  It  was  a  small  revolver.  He  took  it 
to  one  of  the  windows  and  examined  it  carefully.  It  was 
a  pretty  bit  of  workmanship,  with  a  handle  in  pearl  and 
gold.  He  looked  at  the  chambers,  there  were  seven  of 
them,  all  loaded.  He  went  back  to  his  chair.  A  sort  of 
panorama  of  faces  seemed  to  pass  before  him,  the  face  of 
his  lawful  wife — the  face  of  the  girl  he  had  loved  and  lost 
— the  reproachful  face  of  the  young  companion  of  other 
days,  of  whose  death  and  ruin  he  had  been  the  cause — the 
face  of  his  brother,  noble  and  good — how  different  that 
brother's  life  had  been  from  his;  it  had  never  been  hard 
for  him  to  do  right.  Alfred  rose  from  his  chair,  lit  the 
gas  and  drew  out  his  writing  materials.  He  would  leave 
a  word  or  two  for  Henry.  He  wrote  but  a  few  lines,  ask- 
ing his  brother  to  take  care  of  his  effects,  to  acknowledge 
the  boy,  to  provide  for  the  wife. 

"If  they  desire  my  name  let  them  have  it.  It  is  all  I 
can  leave  of  any  value,  if  they  consider  it  so.  Teach  the 
boy  to  be  a  better  man  than  I  have  been,  Henry.  You 
have  always  borne  with  me  very  patiently,  my  brother. 
I  thank  you  for  your  kindness.    Neither  do  I  blame  you 


Lord  Carnlcieh   Decides.  Ill 


t> 


for  your  interference  in  this  matter.  It  was  just  and  right. 
Do  not  judge  of  me  too  harshly,"  he  wrote  at  the  last, 
"I  am  not  worthy  your  better  thoughts,  but  be  as  lenient 
with  me  as  you  can." 

That  was  all.  He  folded  the  paper  and  left  it  upon 
the  table.  Then  he  resumed  his  seat  and  sat  for  some  time 
looking  about  him.  The  room  was  pretty,  homo-like  for  a 
hotel.  There  were  a  handsome  mahogany  folding  bed 
and  dressing  case;  a  swinging  mirror  in  one  corner  and 
large  easy  chairs.  The  walls  were  hung  with  pictures, 
water-colors  mostly.  Opposite  him  hung  a  very  dainty  bit 
of  water-color  work,  framed  in  white  and  gold.  It  was 
the  figure  of  a  girl  carrying  a  basket  of  rosy  apples.  He 
gazed  at  her  until  he  knew  every  outline  of  the  lithe  young 
form,  every  delicate  shading  of  color — the  brown  hair 
knotted  at  the  back  of  her  shapely  head,  the  yellow  ker- 
chief folded  about  her  breast,  the  checked  gown  turned  up 
about  her  waist,  showing  the  skirt  beneath,  the  muscular, 
yet  rounded,  feminine  arms  that  upheld  the  rosy  burden. 
Her  form  bent  back  with  the  weight  of  the  basket.  He  be- 
gan to  commiserate  her,  to  think  she  must  be  very  tired 
of  holding  the  apples  in  one  position  so  long.  He  watched 
her  until  she  seemed  a  living  thing.  He  would  not  have 
been  surprised  if  she  had  dropped  the  basket,  straightened 
herself,  yawned  and  supported  her  back  v/ith  her  hands. 
He  began  to  grow  nervous  as  he  watched  her,  and  presently 
wheeled  his  chair  around  and  closed  his  eyes.  Thoughts 
came  crowding  thick  and  fast  into  his  brain — thoughts 
relative  to  nothing  in  particular — such  thoughts  as  come 
to  us  sometimes,  when  we  lie  awake  at  night,  when  all  the 
world  is  wrapped  in  slumber, — strange,  weird  thoughts 
that  seemed  to  pile  one  upon  another  like  the  groat  roll- 
ing nimbus  clouds  of  a  midsummer  storm — thoughts  as 
to  the  strangeness  of  life,  death — eternity.  He  thought 
of  the  great  world  whirling  in  space,  of  other  worlds  in- 
finitely greater  around  it.  It  seemed  as  though  lie  stood 
upon  the  edge  of  the  earth,  and  was  about  to  leap  into  the 
infinity  of  space — into  the  midst  of  the  m^^iads  of  stars, 
planets  and  molten  bits  of  matter.  He  thought  of  the 
generations  that  had  lived  and  died  and  passed  out  of 


112  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

knowledge,  of  the  millions  upon  millions  of  men  who  had 
inhabited  the  earth  and  been  swept  from  it.  What  was 
one  life  ?  What  were  a  million  lives  in  this  great  concourse 
that  had  marched  and  were  marching  on  down  the  ages? 
What  mattered  the  going  out  of  his  life  now,  like  the 
going  out  of  a  candle  in  a  sudden  whifE  of  wind?  Over 
each  life  hangs  a  Damoclesian  sword  b}''  a  hair,  what  mat- 
tered it  whether  that  hair  were  severed  by  one's  own  hand 
or  the  hand  of  fate?  It  would  be  but  a  short  time  in  the 
course  of  nature  ere  death  would  claim  him,  but  a  short 
time  ere  the  very  generation  in  which  he  lived  would  pass 
away — but  a  short  time  ere  its  works  would  be  forgotten, 
its  buildings  crumble  to  dust — ere  it  would  be  only  a 
name,  a  tale  that  is  told.  Xothing  lasting — all  evanes- 
cent, fleeting,  like  the  will-o'-the-wisp  in  a  swamp  by  night ! 
Then  his  busy  brain  rested  for  a  moment.  His  mind  be- 
came almost  a  blank.  He  seemed  to  fall  into  a  sort  of  wak- 
ing sleep.  Presently  he  roused  himself,  loosened  his  neck- 
wear and  tore  open  his  shirt  and  silken  undervest.  He 
placed  his  hand  over  his  heart.  It  was  beating  rapidly. 
Now  he  was  a  living  man  amongst  men — but  a  moment's 
work  and  he  would  be  a  thing  to  shudder  at,  to  speak  of  in 
whispers,  to  move  about  on  tiptoe.  Who  would  think  of 
fastening  a  living  man  in  a  coffin  and  laying  him  away 
under  the  earth  ?  And  yet  a  moment's  work,  and  he  would 
be  that  something  they  would  put  away  out  of  sight, 
under  the  earth.  The  form,  the  semblance,  the  outer  man 
Avould  be  there,  but  the  something  that  with  this  outer 
man  made  him  what  he  was,  a  living,  thinking,  feeling 
being,  would  be  gone.  A  long  shudder  passed  over  him. 
Ho  grew  sick  and  faint.  His  nerveless  hand  dropped  from 
his  heart.  After  a  time  he  reached  for  the  revolver  which 
lay  upon  the  table.  His  other  hand  clenched  tightly.  He 
cocked  the  revolver  and  held  it  from  him  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  raised  it  to  his  breast  and  fired.! 


Dora  Allene  had  thrown  herself  upon  a  couch  in  her 
room  and  lay  there  with  her  eyes  closed.     This  sudden^  ter- 


Lord  Carnleigh  Decides.  113 

rible  thing  that  had  come  upon  her  seemed  to  bereave  her 
of  her  senses.  She  had  done  what  was  right,  but  her  heart 
rebelled  nevertheless.  Why  should  such  a  thing  happen 
to  her?  What  had  she  done  to  bring  the  shame  of  such 
a  thing  upon  her  ?  She  almost  wished  she  could  fall  into 
a  sleep,  and  sleep  on  and  on,  and  never  waken.  She  dreaded 
her  mother's  anger.  W^hat  mortification  was  in  store  for 
her  mothers  pride !  Would  she  think  she,  Dora,  had  done 
right  ? 

Dora  became  aware  that  someone  was  standing  beside 
her.  She  gave  a  little  cry.  "Don't  be  alarmed,  Dora," 
it  was  her  mothers  voice.  "Get  up  quickly — hush,  Dora, 
be  calm — something  dreadful  has  happened." 

The  girl  sprang  to  her  feet,  catching  at  her  mother's 
dress  wildly. 

"Lord  Carnleigh  is  very  ill.  He  has  sent  for  you — 
he  is  dying — Dora — he  shot  himself " 

Dora  fell  to  the  floor  in  a  swoon. 

When  she  returned  to  consciousness  the  light  was  burn- 
ing low  and  her  mother  was  bending  over  her.  Dora  sat 
up. 

"Alfred  dying.  I  must  go  to  him,"  she  said,  looking 
about  her  wildly. 

"Lie  down  again,  dear,  you  are  not  well  enough  to  go  just 
now." 

"Mamma,  please  get  my  cloak  and  hat,"  she  persisted, 
working  her  hands  together  nervously. 

"But,  my  dear  child " 

Dora  made  an  impatient  gesture.  "You  said  Lord  Carn- 
leigh had  asked  for  me,  mamma.  I  could  not  refuse  to  go 
to  him.    It  would  be  cruel." 

She  had  her  way.  In  a  short  time  she  was  sitting  back 
in  one  corner  of  the  carriage,  beside  her  brother,  wrapped 
in  fur  from  head  to  foot,  and  they  were  rolling  down 
Michigan  Avenue  at  a  rapid  rate.  The  street  in  front  of 
the  hotel  was  filled  with  people.  They  were  standing  in 
groups  talking  in  low  tones.  Two  or  three  blue-coated 
policemen  paced  up  and  down  the  street  restlessly,  keeping 
the  curious  at  bay.  The  hotel  proprietors  had  tried  to  keep 
the  matter  quiet.     As  well  try  to  stay  the  tempest  when  all 


114  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

the  flood  gates  of  heaven  are  opened  upon  the  earth  beneath, 
as  well  try  to  gather  together  and  put  back  all  the  evils 
let  lose  from  Pandora's  box,  as  to  keep  an  excitement- 
loving  public  from  learning  the  latest  bit  of  scandal. 

Several  people  turned  and  looked  at  Dora  and  her 
brother  in  a  scrutinizing  way.  It  was  whispered  about  that 
the  girl  Avas  Lord  Carnleiglis  betrothed  wife,  the  beautiful 
Miss  Allene. 

Her  brother  hurried  her  to  the  elevator.  She  was  begin- 
ning to  grow  faint  under  the  fire  of  eyes.  She  felt  as 
'.though  her  knees  would  give  way  under  her  when  she 
reached  Lord  Carnleigh's  apartments. 

A  stiff,  pompous  English  servant  ushered  them  in — 
a  man  whom  nothing,  not  even  a  tragedy,  could  move  out 
of  his  self-imposed  immobility. 

Presently  a  tall  gentleman  came  into  the  room.  His 
face  was  pale  and  drawn  with  pain. 

"Mr.  Allene  ?"  he  asked,  holding  out  his  hand  to  young 
Edward.  "I  am  Lord  Carnleigh's  brother.  I  am  sorry 
that  we  meet  under  such  circumstances."  His  voice  choked 
and  he  turned  away  liis  head  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
turned  to  Dora. 

"And  this  is  Z>ora,"  he  said,  gently,  taking  both  her 
hands  in  his  and  looking  at  her  intently.  "You  were  very 
kind  to  come."  If  life  were  worth  laying  down  for  a 
woman,  such  a  woman  as  this  were  worth  the  sacrifice. 
With  her  seal  hood  thrown  back  from  her  fair  head,  her 
dark  furs  making  a  rich  background  for  the  sweet,  uplifted 
horror-stricken  face,  the  brown  eyes  filled  with  unshed 
tears,  she  looked  the  personification  of  Pit}''s  self. 

"Oh,  sir,''  she  said,  in  a  low,  rapid  tone,  "you  do  not 
blame  me — Oh,  say  I  was  not  the  cause  of  it  all — I  did 
what  I  thought  was  right."     He  pressed  her  hands  gently, 

"Xo,no;  a  thousand  times  no- — youwereright.  You  could 
have  done  nothing  else.  But  you  must  calm  yourself.  My 
brother  wishes  to  see  you." 

He  went  into  the  next  room  for  some  moments,  coming 
back  presently  with  the  two  physicians — "Dora,"  he  said 
(he  called  her  Dora,  it  seemed  at  such  a  time  and  under 
such  circumstances  he  could  do  nothing  else)   "will  you 


Lord  Carnleigh  Decides.  115 

kindly  go  into  tliG  next  room  ?  ]\Iy  brother  wishes  to  speak 
with  you."    She  steadied  herself  and  went  in. 

He  was  lying  on  the  bed,  partly  dressed,  wrapped 
in  a  silken  gown,  a  rich  Persian  robe  thrown  over  him. 
He  held  out  his  arms  and  smiled.  "I  knew  you  would 
come,"  he  said. 

She  sat  down  beside  him  and  took  his  hand  in  hers,  her 
beautiful  eyes  filling  with  tears.  The  loss  of  blood  made 
his  face  very  pale — the  pain  refined  and  softened  his 
features — ^liis  smile  was  very  sweet  and  gentle. 

"Oh,  Alfred,  why  did  you  do  this  ?"  she  cried,  the  tears 
chasing  one  another  down  her  cheeks.    He  shook  his  head. 

"I  do  not  know,  it  was  better  so.  I  left  word  for  them  to 
acknowledge  the  boy  and  my  wife.  You  see — I  tried  to 
do  right — in  that — at  least — to  do  as  you  would  approve. 
Dear,  dear  Dora,"  he  was  beginning  to  lose  his  breath  a 
little,  it  became  more  difficult  to  talk.  "You  do  not  know 
how  much  it  is  to  me — to  see — you  here — it  was — so  good 
— so  good — of  you — to  come " 

She  was  sobbing  now  as  though  her  heart  would  break. 

"Don't,  dear  girl — I  am  not  worth  it — a  poor  reprobate 
— of  whom — the  world's  well  rid.  Don't  waste — your 
tears — on  me — Dora,  dear — I — am — not  worth — it.  You'll 
spoil — 3'our — pretty — eyes."  His  hand  closed  over  hers. 
"Do  you  know — dearest — girl,"  he  said  presently,  "they 
wanted — to  pray — with  me — but — I  said,  ''no' — wait — • 
for  Dora — she  will  come.  If — prayers — are — heard — hers 
—will  be." 

Her  frame  was  still  shaking  with  suppressed  sobs.  "I 
pray?"  she  cried,  through  her  tears — "I  am  not  good 
enough  to  pray.  Oh,  Alfred,  let  me  get  a  clergyman." 
He  shook  his  head. 

*'My  brother — is — a  clergj^man.  Your  praj^ers — will 
reach — near — enough — to  Heaven — for  me." 

What  could  she  do?  She  scarcely  knew  how  to  pray. 
Hers  had  not  been  a  prayerful  life.  It  had  been  thought- 
less, selfish,  worldly.  She  could  think  of  nothing  but  the 
Lord's  prayer,  so  she  knelt  beside  the  bed  and  repeated  it 
between  her  sobs.     His  hands  closed  tightly  over  hers. 

"Forgive — us — our — debts.     Deliver — us — from — evil/* 


Ii6  A  Girl  of  Chlcaeo. 


t>' 


he  murmured  over  after  her.  When  she  lifted  her  head, 
he  took  her  face  between  his  hands. 

"Dear  girl — how  good — you  are.  Would — ^you  mind 
— would  you — think — it  wrong — to  kiss — ^me — just  once? 
It's  the — last  request — I  shall — make.  It  can't — be — 
wrong." 

She  rose  and,  leaning  over  him,  pressed  her  soft  warm 
lips  to  his.  He  smiled  radiantly.  "Dear  Dora — my — good 
— angel/'  he  whispered. 

Then  he  suddenly  put  his  arms  about  her  and  folded 
her  close,  closer,  in  an  embrace  in  which  his  very  soul 
seemed  to  go  out  from  him,  for  he  fell  back  like  a  log  upon 
the  pillow.  Dora  gave  a  startled  cry  that  brought  them  all 
from  the  next  room. 

A  change  had  come  over  him.  One  of  the  physicians 
stepped  to  the  bed  and  leaned  over  the  dying  man.  "It 
will  be  but  a  short  time  now,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone,  turning 
partly  away. 

Henry  drew  a  chair  by  the  side  of  the  bed  and  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands. 

Dora  knelt  down  near  him,  taking  Lord  Carnleigh's 
hand  in  hers — the  hand  that  she  had  thought  so  soon  to 
hold,  while  promising  before  God  and  man  to  be  his  faith- 
ful wife — the  hand  that  had  once  made  her  shudder  when 
it  touched  hers  and  that  now  she  bathed  with  her  tears 
and  pressed  between  her  own,  again  and  again — the  hand 
that  had  taken  away  his  life  for  love  of  her.  "Dear — 
dear  girl — dear — good — girl."  He  turned  his  face  away, 
heaving  a  long,  long  sigh. 

The  physicians  both  went  softly  to  the  bed.  One  of 
them  placed  his  hand  over  Lord  Carnleigh's  heart. 

It  had  ceased  to  beat. 


Mamma  AUene  Relents.  117 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

MAMMA  ALLENE   RELENTS. 

"I  strove  against  the  stream,  and  all  in  vain." — Tennyson. 

The  tide  of  travel  had  turned  southward.  The  holidays 
were  past  and  gone.  The  fashionable  world,  ever  restless 
and  on  the  move,  had  taken  to  itself  wings  and  followed 
the  birds  of  passage  into  the  sunny  South.  St.  Augustine, 
if  not  the  objective  point  of  most  of  the  gay  butterflies 
of  fashion  who  throng  Jacksonville  during  the  months  of 
February  and  March,  making  of  it  a  hive  of  beauty,  gossip 
and  fashion,  was  still  popular  enough  to  find  her  hotels 
full  to  overflowing. 

The  hotels  were  crowded  almost  to  suffocation.  The 
ever-present  boarding  house  mistress  of  greater  or  less 
importance  was  there  in  abundance.  Every  house  along  the 
narrow  streets  displayed  one  of  these  signs — "Museum," 
"Curios,"  or  "Eooms  to  rent,"  "Boarding  by  the  day  or 
week," 

It  is  astonishing  the  inconvenience  these  native  Minorcans 
will  put  themselves  to  in  order  to  gain  a  few  dollars  from 
the  "Yanks"  (they  call  all  jSTortherners  "Yanks''),  whom 
they  regard  as  possessed  of  the  wealth  of  the  ancient 
Croesus. 

Still,  despite  the  modern  land  sharks,  modern  board- 
ing house  mistresses,  modern  buildings  and  modem 
charges,  St.  Augustine  is  entrancing.  Jacksonville  may 
be  more  popular,  but  she  can  never  acquire  that  delicious, 
dreamy,  enchanting  air  that  sets  so  well  upon  her  Southern 


Ii8  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

sister.  Despite  the  modern  innovations  which  have  been 
made  during  late  years  St.  Augustine  retains  her  quaint 
look.  It  is  not  like  anything  else  in  America  and  fills 
one  with  the  same  sort  of  awe  and  reverence  that  villagers 
feel  for  the  oldest  inhabitant. 

The  season  was  an  unusually  gay  one.  The  old  shell 
road,  Bay  Street,  King  Street,  and  in  fact  all  of  the  wider 
streets,  were  lined  with  dashing  turnouts  and  jaunty 
occupants.  The  bay,  that  broad,  calm,  beautiful  sheet  of 
water,  was  alive  with  yachts  and  row  boats,  and  the  de- 
lightful weather  metamorphosed  January  into  June.  Save 
for  the  people,  Dora  Aliene  found  St.  Augustine  soothing, 
medicinal.  The  strange  old  town,  the  soft,  sweet  air,  the 
narrow  streets,  with  their  coquina  houses,  whose  over- 
hanging balconies,  quaint  enough  to  suit  the  most 
romantic — she  found  interesting — as  interesting  as  she 
could  find  anything  now. 

The  girl  had  not  been  herself  since  Lord  Carnleigh's 
death.  The  entire  affair  had  so  affected  her,  so  unnerved 
her,  that  she  had  grown  pale  and  thin  and  listless.  The 
doctor  ordered  a  change  and  so  Mrs.  Aliene  had  bustled 
her  off  to  the  South. 

Mrs.  E.  Gordon  Aliene,  poor  soul,  was  to  be  pitied  if 
ever  mortal  were.  She  felt  like  a  child,  who  had  been 
dancing  along  gaily  in  proud  possession  of  a  bright  colored 
balloon,  and  who  finds  his  treasure  suddenly  snapped  away 
from  his  grasp  by  some  rough  wind,  and  who  can  only 
watch  it,  helplessly  as  it  passes  on  and  on,  and  up  and  up, 
out  of  his  reach  forever.  The  castle  of  her  hopes  that  she 
had  thought  built  upon  a  rock  had  been  washed  aAvay  from 
its  sandy  foundation  by  the  fierce,  uncontrollable  waves  of 
fate.  She  had  been  surprised,  shocked,  nonplussed — foiled. 
The  whole  story  did  not  reach  her  ears  until  after  the 
unfortunate  nobleman's  death  and  then  her  anger  quite 
overcame  any  feeling  of  pity  that  she  had  at  first  ex- 
perienced. Not  that  she  would  have  had  any  scruples  as 
to  her  daughter's  marrying  Lord  Carnleigh  if  he  had 
already  been  a  divorced  man — but  when  she  heard  that  he 
had  requested  Dora  to  wait  until  he  had  obtained  a  divorce, 
she  was  very  much  shocked. 


Mamma  Allene  Relents.  119 

There  would  have  heen  too  much  publicity  and  scandal 
about  such  a  proceeding — it  would  have  taken  away  too 
much  from  her  triumph  at  a  connection  with  the  English 
peerage.  She  was  disappointed — cruelly  disappointed. 
There  was  the  title — there  was  the  glory — there  was  the 
superb  trousseau — there  was  the  magnificent  church 
wedding — there  was  the  gaping  wonder  of  the  vulgar  mul- 
titude— every  brilliant  prospect  gone — vanished  like  the 
mist  before  the  rising  sun.  She  was  mortified  beyond 
measure  at  the  defeat,  and  she  would  have  been  very  bitter 
towards  Lord  Carnleigh  when  she  heard  his  story,  had 
it  not  been  that  his  untimely  death  sealed  her  lips.  The 
whole  thing  had  come  upon  her  so  suddenly,  "like  a  thun- 
derbolt at  noonday  when  not  a  cloud  was  in  the  sky,"  that 
she  had  been  for  a  time  completely  overwhelmed. 

However,  despite  her  keen  disappointment,  Mrs.  Allene 
was  not  the  Vv^oman  to  brood  over  the  irretrievable.  She 
was  the  sort  of  general,  who,  after  a  defeat  begins  to  plan 
another  campaign  and  victory.  Although  still  very  sensi- 
tive to  the  "might  have  been"  she  yet  began  to  plan  for 
the  "what  might  be."  She  felt  sorry  for  Dora,  indeed  she 
felt  anxious  about  her,  but  that  would  not  prevent  her 
from  sacrificing  the  girl  a  second  time  if  a  brilliant  pros- 
pect presented  itself. 

She  was  very  proud  of  Dora — proud  of  her  beauty, 
of  the  admiration  she  excited.  Her  ambition  would  not 
allow  the  girl  to  be  sacrificed  save  on  some  exalted  altar. 
She  knew  that  Dora  had  not  loved  Lord  Carnleigh  and  she 
was  astonished  at  the  effect  his  death  had  had  upon  her. 
She  had  reasoned  the  girl  out  of  going  to  a  more  quiet 
place  than  St.  Augustine,  and  it  annoyed  her  excessively 
that  Dora  did  not  take  any  more  interest  in  what  was  going 
on  about  her.  Not  that  she  wished  her  to  join  in  all  the 
festivities.  There  was,  of  course,  after  so  shocking  a 
tragedy,  a  certain  decorum  to  be  observed.  The  local  papers 
and  indeed  the  newspapers  in  general  had  been  full  of  the 
affair.  Dora's  name  had  been  used  freely,  her  grace  and 
her  beauty  lauded  to  the  skies,  her  position  commiserated. 
It  would  not  do  for  the  girl  to  be  too  forward.  But  then 
too,  there  was  no  need  to  make  a  recluse  of  one's  self  be- 


I20  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

cause  one's  betrothed  husband  happened  to  be — the  thought 
always  ended  with  a  shudder.  She  never  finished  it 
even  in  her  own  mind.  She  had  a  horror  of  death  and 
never  let  the  consciousness  that  life  was  but  a  fleeting 
thing  at  best,  disturb  her  thoughts  for  a  moment.  If  Dora 
would  only  sit  about  the  hotel  more,  where  she  could  be 
seen  and  noticed — but  she  would  wander  off  by  herself 
to  that  clammy  fort  or  some  other  outlandish  place  and  sit 
by  the  hour.  Mamma  Allene  was  quite  out  of  patience 
with  her,  still  she  did  not  show  it.  She  would  give  the 
girl  time.  No  one,  not  even  Dora  herself  could  guess  from 
Mrs.  Allene's  decorous  demeanor — her  usual  cordial  man- 
ner tempered  by  a  shade  of  sadness,  her  voice  lowered  as 
became  a  woman  who  had  been  associated  in  some  degree 
with  a  terrible  tragedy — no  one  who  saw  her  thus — 
dreamed  that  she  was  keeping  her  eyes  open  for  another 
eligible  match. 

She  could  not  understand  Dora,  but  she  knew  that  the 
best  way  to  do  was  to  let  her  alone.  If  the  girl  had  loved 
Lord  Carnleigh,  she  could  understand — but  to  brood  so, 
over  a  man  one  did  not  love — well,  well — she  shook  her 
head.  Dora  was  quite  beyond  her  comprehension.  If  the 
girl  were  so  blind  to  her  own  interests  she  supposed  it  could 
not  be  helped.  All  that  could  be  done  now  was  to  watch 
out  for  an  eligible  fjcirtl  and  endeavor  to  throw  the  girl  in 
his  way.  She  did  not  know  that  Dora's  tender  conscience 
gave  her  no  peace — that  she  felt  herself  in  some  way,  she 
knew  not  exactly  how,  to  blame — that  her  sensitive  organ- 
ization had  received  a  shock  from  which  it  was  difficult  to 
rally.  She  did  not  know  that  the  girl  in  her  thoughts  re- 
belled against  the  fact  that  caused  her  to  be  the  death  of 
the  man  she  could  not  love  and  separated  her  from  the  man 
who  was  all  the  world  to  her.  She  longed  for  a  sight  of  his 
face,  she  felt  that  he  would  understand  her.  And  yet  at  the 
same  time  her  heart  went  out  with  a  great  throb  of  pity  for 
the  man  who  had  died  by  his  own  hand,  for  love  of  her. 
Again  and  again  her  thoughts  went  over  the  various  scenes 
of  the  tragedy.  She  had  no  feeling  save  one  of  pity  for  the 
dead — of  condemnation  for  herself.  If  she  had  only  been 
decided  at  first  and  never  let  him  wait  upon  her  at  all. 


Mamma  AUene  Relents.  121 

Poor  child !  How  could  she  help  it  all  ?  She  had  been  but 
a  leaf  in  the  storm.  If  she  could  only  see  Will — how  good 
and  kind  and  gentle  he  would  be !  Only  at  times  her  heart 
cried  out  for  him.  She  set  the  thought  aside  instantly. 
She  had  no  right  to  think  of  him.  She  felt  like  an  outcast ; 
even  a  feeling  of  blood  guiltiness  was  upon  her.  Day  after 
day  she  wandered  down  to  the  old  fort  and  sat  for  hours, 
with  a  book  in  her  hand — not  that  she  ever  read  the  book — 
she  always  intended  to  do  so,  but  her  thoughts  would 
wander — and  then  the  soft  air  was  so  lulling,  soothing  her 
into  a  sort  of  waking  sleep.  She  loved  to  watch  the  ocean 
waves  off  North  Beach — she  could  just  see  them  and  hear 
their  distant  rumbling  as  it  came  faintly  to  her  ears,  yet 
bringing  a  sense  of  power  and  might. 

She  never  grew  tired  of  the  picture — the  ocean  waves 
dashing  angrily  outside  of  the  harbor  like  hungry  wolves 
striving  to  get  in — the  calm,  still  bay,  spreading  its  placid 
surface  like  a  heavenly  mirror  in  which  the  sun,  moon 
and  stars  and  all  the  fleecy  clouds  might  look  and  see 
their  glory  reflected — the  long,  narrow  strip  of  land,  Ana- 
stasia  Island,  with  its  marshy  grass  and  stately  lighthouse, 
that  looked,  from  where  she  was  Vv^ont  to  sit,  like  a  slender 
column  upholding  the  weight  of  the  sky  from  off  the  earth. 
The  young  people  thought  her  peculiar,  as  they  turned  and 
looked  after  the  dainty  figure  that  wandered  off  by  itself 
along  the  sea  wall  to  the  fort,  day  by  day. 

After  awhile  her  story  was  whispered  about  and  they 
regarded  her  with  awe  and  pity.  But  they  did  not  annoy 
her  long  with  their  curiosity.  There  were  too  many  other 
things  to  take  up  their  attention.  They  cared  but  little 
for  the  curiosities  of  the  place;  the  quaint  Spanish  gates, 
all  that  remains,  it  is  said,  of  a  wall  which  once  extended 
around  the  town ;  the  old  fort  with  its  fallen  grandeur, 
its  clinging  memories,  the  stories  told  by  the  old  guard, 
which,  whether  false  or  true,  give  an  added  charm — the 
coquina  houses  which  in  no  wise  pale  before  the  smart 
foreign  intruders,  at  least  in  the  eyes  of  the  artist.  What 
are  all  these  when  compared  with  the  boating,  bathing, 
drives,  fishing,  shrimping,  the  innumerable  gayeties  that 


122  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

helped  to  pass  the  time  and  turn  winter  into  summer  in 
this  delightful  winter  city  ? 

"Dora/'  said  Mamma  AUene  anxiously  one  day  as  the 
girl  was  prepared  to  go  out,  "there  is  to  be  an  oyster  bake 
along  the  banks  of  the  Matanzas  Eiver  to-morrow.  Don't 
you  want  to  go?" 

The  girl  turned,  her  large  eyes  glistening.  "How  can 
you  ask  such  a  thing,  mamma?" 

Mrs.  Allene  grew  impatient.  "How  can  I  ask  such  a 
thing  ?  Well,  I  should  think  it  a  very  natural  thing  to  ask. 
Don't  you  suppose  I  want  to  see  you  enjoy  yourself  ?  There 
isn't  a  girl  in  the  to^m  who  would  have  more  attention  if 
you  M^ould  only  allow  it.  I  like  to  see  you  admired.  You 
are  pretty  and  interesting.  Why  can't  you  be  more  like 
your  old  self?  I  know  you  don't  feel  well,  but  you  never 
will  if  you  mope  around  so.  I  hate  to  see  people  look  at 
you  and  speak  about  you  as  they  do.  Someone  said  to 
me  the  other  day — 'Your  daughter  is  pretty,  but  rather! 
peculiar,  isn't  she?'  It  mortified  me  almost  to  death. 
If  there  is  anything  I  have  a  horror  of  it  is  a  peculiar 
person." 

Dora  trembled  in  every  limb.  "If  I  am  peculiar,  mamma, 
you  have  made  me  so.  I  have  tried  to  please  you — to  do 
in  all  things  as  you  wished.  I  threw  myself  in  the  way 
of  the  man  you  wanted  me  to  marry.  Instead  of  despising 
me  for  my  transparent  efforts  to  win  him,  he  grew  to  love 
me.  I  accepted  his  love,  knowing  I  could  never  love  him. 
I  was  the  cause  of  his  death.  His  blood  is  on  my 
hands." 

Mrs.  Allene  turned  a  white,  angry  face  towards  her 
daughter.  "What  nonsense  you  talk !  Are  you — am  I  to 
blame  for  the  folly  of  another?  I  regret  very  much  all 
that  has  happened,  but  am  I  to  be  censured  for  looking  out 
for  your  interests  ?  You  would  have  made  fool  enough  of 
yourself  in  another  direction  if  I  had  let  you  alone." 

Dora  looked  at  her  mother  for  a  moment,  and  then  sank 
into  a  chair.  Mrs.  Allene  became  alarmed  at  the  storm  of 
tears  that  swept  over  her,  and  which  she  tried  in  vain  to 
check.     The  girl  had  a  nervous  chill.     Her  hands  were  like 


Mamma  Allene  Relents.  123 

ice  and  her  teeth  chattered  violently.  Ilcr  mother  rang 
for  her  maid  and  sent  f'or  Doctor  Marbury. 

Dora  was  more  quiet  when  he  arrived.  She  was  lying 
upon  the  lounge  witli  her  eyes  closed.  She  had  ceased 
crying.  Now  and  then  she  would  catch  her  breath  in  a 
sort  of  sobbing  sound,  as  a  child  does  after  a  prolonged 
fit  of  weeping.  The  doctor  was  very  gentle,  chafing  her 
hands  in  his  and  talking  to  her  as  he  would  have  done  to 
a  child.  He  sounded  her  lungs  and  heart,  looked  at  her 
for  awhile  as  if  in  a  ti.'own  study,  wrote  out  a  prescription 
and  rose  to  go. 

''Good-bye,  little  lady.  You  must  keep  quiet  for  a  day 
or  two — and  then  I  trast  you'll  be  all  right." 

He  beckoned  her  mother  into  the  next  room. 

"Has  your  daughtel'  anything  upon  her  mind?"  he  asked, 
looking  at  her  keenly. 

Mrs.  Allene  starteil  to  shake  her  head  negatively,  then 
she  thought  better  o£  it,  and  told  him  the  story — that  is,  as 
much  of  it  as  she  tltought  best.     He  looked  grave. 

"Mrs.  Allene, — I  ^hall  not  deceive  you.  I  fear  your 
daughter  is  in  a  critical  condition.  She  has  an  extremely 
sensitive  organization.  Things  take  a  deeper  hold  upon 
her  than  they  do  upon  most  people.  I  am  fearful  of  a 
decline.  Watch  over  her  closely.  Keep  her  cheerful  and 
bright,  and  above  all,  keep  her  mind  oil  herself.  Eead  to 
her,  if  she  desires  it.  If  you  have  a  pleasant,  cheerful 
friend,  let  her  visit  your  daughter.  There  is  a  lady  board- 
ing near  me  whose  beautiful  face  would  be  like  a  fragrant 
flower  in  a  sick  room,  Mrs.  Courtney  Barnes — do  you  know 
her  ?"  as  Mrs.  Allene  started  and  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"Mrs.  Barnes?  Very  well — in  fact,  intimately.  I  did 
not  even  know  she  Vfas  here." 

"They  have  only  been  here  for  a  few  days.  I  doubt, 
however,  if  her  husband  can  spare  her,  they  are  so  de- 
voted. I  supposed  at  first  they  were  upon  their  wedding 
trip,  but  was  surprised  to  hear  that  they  have  been  married 
some  years." 

A  bell-boy  came  to  the  door  with  a  card,  "Mrs.  Courtney 
Lewis   Barnes." 

"Speak  of  angels/'  said  the  doctor  laughing,  as  Mrs. 


124  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

Allcne  read  the  name  aloud.  "Well^,  good  morning.  I 
shall  run  in  to  see  my  patient  to-morrow." 

Mrs.  Barnes  came  in  presently,  looking  so  glowingly 
radiant  that  Mrs.  Allene  kissed  her  warmly,  and  Dora  held 
out  her  arms  with  a  glad  little  cry. 

Helen  went  straight  to  her  and  put  her  arms  about 
Dora's  neck.  "Dear  girl !  You  must  think  me  neglect- 
ful. I  have  intended  to  come  to  see  you  every  day  since 
our  arrival,  but  Courtney  kept  planning  something  new 
every  day — horseback  riding,  trips  up  to  Williams'  Garden 
— and,  by  the  way,  the  Garden  is  lovely — the  avenue  lined 
with  palmetto  trees,  and  then  the  flowers — who  was  it  that 
said  flowers  are  all  that  is  left  us  of  Paradise  ?  You  would 
agree  at  least  that  they  came  to  us  from  Paradise  if  you 
could  put  your  foot  in  that  garden.  Courtney  is  all  ab- 
sorbed in  a  new  yacht  he  purchased  yesterday,  and  if  it 
were  not  that  he  wished  to  understand  it  better  ere 
venturing  out  with  me,  I  fear  he  would  not  have  let  me 
off  this  afternoon."  She  paused  a  moment.  It  seemed  as 
though  she  must  tell  of  her  new-found  happiness,  her 
heart  was  so  full;  but  she  checked  herself.  She  was  a 
woman  of  too  much  delicacy  of  feeling  to  speak  either  of 
her  happiness  or  her  unhappiness  in  her  relationship  with 
her  husband. 

It  seemed  almost  as  though  she  were  beginning  her 
married  life  anew,  as  though  they  were  enjoying  a  second 
"honeymoon"  (and  'tis  useless  to  protest,  as  some  folks  do, 
that  the  "honeymoon"  lasts  all  through  life;  we  are  too 
prosaic  and  matter-of-fact,  as  a  rule — and  that  delightful 
period  in  which  the  woman  is  all  smiles,  and  the  man  all 
devotion,  is  alas !  of  but  too  short  duration.  Love  may 
never  grow  cold,  but  romance  in  a  workaday  world  is 
evanescent  and  fleeting).  Courtney  was  so  gentle  and 
tender;  he  seemed  scarcely  to  wish  her  out  of  his  sight  a 
moment.  He  said  so  many,  many  times,  "My  precious  wife 
— ^how  dear  you  are  to  me !"  And  a  woman  does  so  enjoy 
being  told  she  is  beloved.  True  he  might  fall  into  tempta- 
tion again,  but  she  knew  if  he  did,  he  would  come  straight 
to  her,  and  she  knew  she  would  do  all  in  her  power  to  help 


Mamma  Allene  Relents.  125 

him.  She  knew  that  whatever  came — their  souls  were  re- 
united in  a  bond  that  not  even  death  could  destroy. 

There  was  no  need  to  tell  of  her  happiness,  her  face  told 
the  story. 

Dora  lay  looking  up  at  her  friend  enviously.  They  were 
alone.  Mrs.  Allene  having  been  called  away  by  visitors. 

"You  are  very  happy,  aren't  you,  Helen?"  she  said  at 
last. 

"Yes,  darling.  This  place  is  so  delightful,  one  -must  be 
happy  here."     Dora's  lip  quivered. 

"It  has  been  so  long  since  I  knew  what  it  was  to  feel 
really  and  truly  happy  that  I  scarcely  know  what  the 
feeling  is,"  she  said  plaintively. 

Mrs.  Barnes  stroked  her  hair.  "Oh,  dear,  dear !"  she 
Baid  lightly.  "We  can't  have  any  such  talk  as  that.  Why, 
when  you  feel  a  little  stronger  the  world  will  look  bright 
enough  again." 

"Oh,  I'm  well  enough,"  said  Dora  pettishly.  I've  been 
about  every  day — I  feel  a  little  tired  and  rather  listless, 
that's  all.  It's  laziness,  I  guess.  I  had  a  sort  of  nervous 
chill  awhile  ago,  so  mamma  made  me  lie  down.  She  worries 
about  me  and  takes  me  to  the  doctor,  or  has  him  come 
here  almost  every  day,  just  because  I  wander  off  by  myself 
and  don't  want  to  meet  strangers.  She  says  I  am  growing 
pale  and  thin — have  I  grown  much  thinner?"  looking  up 
anxiously.    Helen  smiled. 

"You're  not  quite  a  living  skeleton,  dear,"  she  said  gaily, 
pinching  Dora's  cheek.  "We'll  have  you  more  like  the  lady 
of  adipos3  fame  before  we've  been  here  many  days.  You 
shall  go  yachting  with  us,  and  I  am  sure  in  Courtney's 
opinion  that  is  a  panacea  for  every  ill.  How  wrapped  up 
the  boy  is  in  his  new  yacht !"  she  said,  as  if  to  herself,  a 
bright  look  coming  into  her  eyes — then — to  Dora,  "By  the 
,way,  he  has  called  it  'The  Helen,'  because  of  its  beauty 
and  grace  (he  says,  not  I).  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a 
nonsensical  old  married  man?"  She  was  evidently  as 
pleased  as  a  child  and  a  soft  color  stole  into  her  cheek. 

Dora  looked  at  her  curiously.  She  knew  that  a  change 
had  come  over  her  friend.  She  had  heard  enough  to 
know  that  Helen  and  her  husband  had  not  lived  very 


126  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

happily  together.  She  so  seldom  spoke  of  him  in  other 
days,  'Now,  whatever  the  topic,  her  thoughts  seemed  to 
revert  to  him.     What  had  caused  the  change? 

Helen  took  Dora's  hand  and  patted  it  gently  between 
her  OAvn.  "  I  think  I  can  divine  your  thoughts,  dear  girl,'"' 
she  said  presently,  looking  at  her  with  thoughtful,  tender 
eyes.  "I  am  happier  than  I  was — (far  happier  than  I  de- 
serve to  be),  because  I  am  trying  to  live  more  for  others — 
less  for  myself,  because  I  have  an  object  in  life.  It  is 
hard  for  a  woman  of  my  disposition  to  live  without  any 

purpose  whatever "     She  paused  a  moment — "I  wasted 

five  years  of  my  life,  Dora  dear.  I  am  beginning  all  over 
again." 

Dora  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  What  was  there  in  life  for 
her?  "Helen,"  she  said  abruptly,  "do  you  ever  hear  any- 
thing about  him — Will,  I  mean?'' 

Helen  hesitated.  "I  hear  that  he  is  working  hard  to 
make  a  way  for  himself.  He  keeps  to  himself  and  is  very 
quiet,  they  say;  but,  dear — I  don't  believe  we  had  better 
talk  about  that  now — it  might  excite  you."  The  girl's 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  "I  did  think  I  could  talk  to  you, 
Helen,"  she  said  reproachfully. 

"My  darling  girl,"  Helen  cried  throwing  her  arms  about 
her,  "so  you  can.     I  only  spoke  for  your  good.     Leave 

everything  to  me.     I'll  see  what  can  be  done "     She 

paused  a  moment — "Dora,  dear,  I  may  be  doing  wrong  to 
tell  you — but  somehow  it  seems  as  though  I  really  ought 
to  deliver  the  message.  I  met  Will  Porter  in  the  street 
one  day.  He  stopped  me.  'Mrs.  Barnes,'  he  said, 
(you  know  I  always  liked  Will  very  much) — 'pardon 
my  intrusion,  but  you  are  going  South  this  win- 
ter? I  understood  so  at  least.'  I  told  him  'yes,  in  a  day 
or  two.'  I  understood  his  meaning,  dear.  'Presumably  to 
St.  Augustine  ?'  'Certainly.'  'Well,  you  know,  Mrs.  Barnes, 
that  Miss  Allene  is  there — I  learned  the  other  day,  for  her 
health.  I  was  sorry  to  hear  of  her  indisposition.'  (She 
did  not  tell  Dora  how  flushed  and  full  of  concern  his  hand- 
some boyish  face  had  looked.)  'There  has  been  a  good 
deal  to  unsettle  her — Mrs.  Barnes;  you  will  see  her,  of 
course  ?    Well,  if  you  will  say  to  her  that  I  do  not  feel  at 


Mamma  Allene  Relents.  127 

liberty  to  write  without  her  permission — say  to  her  that  I 
am  very,  very  sorry  to  hear  of  her  ill-health,  and  that  I 
trust  she  will  soon  be  restored  in  her  usual  health  to  her 
friends — say  to  her  that  I  have  her  often,  always  in  my 
thoughts — that  whatever  may  come,  however  far  separated 
our  paths  in  life  may  be,  that  I  bless  God  for  having 
known  her,  even  though  we  have  been  cruelly  parted  by 
fate,  and  that  I  shall  be  a  better  man  for  the  knowledge 
of  her  sweet  womanhood  ever  coming  into  my  life.' " 

Mrs.  Barnes  had  unconsciously  assumed  the  low,  intense 
tones  in  v/hich  the  words  had  been  spoken  to  her.  The 
young  man,  standing  before  her  in  the  strength  of  his 
young  manhood,  with  his  heart  crying  out  for  more  than 
his  lips  dared  express,  and  his  handsome  face  showing  the 
deep  struggle  with  his  hopeless  love,  had  v/on  her  sympathy 
and  championship  more  readily^,  that  she  had  so  lately 
awakened  to  her  own  new-born  love. 

Dora  was  clinging  to  her  and  crying  in  a  pitiable  sort 
of  way. 

"There,  there,  my  dear  girl — don't,  please  don't.  I  shall 
feel  very  guilty " 

Mrs.  Allene's  entrance  checked  her.  "How  rude  I  am, 
Helen,  dear !  But  I  really  could  not  get  rid  of  those  call- 
ers— some  New  York  ladies  who  are  stopping  a"^  the  San 
Marco;  quite  pleasant,  but  dreadfully  egotistical — ^you 
know  what  those  New  York  people  are."  She  paused.  She 
saw  that  something  was  wrong.  Dora  had  turned  her 
face  away,  but  she  could  see  that  the  girl  was  agitated,  and 
she  eyed  Helen  sharply. 

Mrs.  Barnes  was  equal  to  the  occasion.  She  made  some 
laughing  remark  about  New  York  people  thinking  New 
Yorlv  the  pivot  around  which  tlie  rest  of  the  v/orld  moved, 
and  finally  branched  off  into  a  gay  description  of  her  first 
trip  "down  East"  after  her  marriage — when  her  New 
York  acquaintances  were  surprised  to  learn  that  Chicago 
people  did  not  as  a  rule  wear  feathers  in  their  hair,  and 
give  vent  to  "war  whoops"  upon  meeting  one  another;  in 
fact  that  they  tuere,  in  a  degree,  civilized. 

Mamma  Allene,  however,  was  not  to  be  thrown  off  her 
guard,  and  when  Mrs,  Barnes  rose  to  go,  and  after  kiss- 


128  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

ing  Dora  and  whisjDering,  "Don't  worr}^,  dear ;  I'll  see  what 
can  be  done/'  left  the  room,  she  followed  her  into  the  cor- 
ridor. When  they  were  half  way  down  the  hall,  she  said 
with  difficulty,  "Helen,  I  am  going  to  ask  you  a  plain 
question,  and,  I  expect  a  straightforward  answer.  Were 
you  talking  to  Dora  about  that  man  ?" 

Mrs.  Barnes  answered  impressively,  "I  was  speaking  to 
Dora  of  a  gentleman,  Mr.  William  Porter." 

Mrs.  Allene's  face  was  white  with  anger,  and  it  was 
with  difficulty  that  she  suppressed  herself. 

"Well,  Helen,  I  must  say  I  am  rather  surprised  at  a 
woman  of  your  age  and  discretion  discussing  what  you 
know  to  be  a  strictly  forbidden  subject,  with  a  foolish, 
light-headed  girl,  who  does  not  really  know  her  ov.-n  mind. 
I  am  very  fond  of  you,  and  I  should  dislike  exceedingly 
to  have  any  feeling  arise  between  us,  but  I  must  request 
you  never  to  mention  that  person's  name  again,  either  in 
my  presence  or  my  daughter's." 

Mrs.  Barnes  was  very  composed.  "  'That  person,^  Mrs. 
Allene,  is  a  gentleman,  and  a  proper  associate  or  a  proper 
husband  for  any  girl  in  the  United  States,  if  that  girl 
happened  to  love  him.  But  I  do  not  intend  to  plead  his 
cause. .  It  is  your  daughter's.  My  dear  Mrs.  Allene,  can 
you  not  see  that  Dora's  health  and  strength,  nay,  her  very 
life,  depend  upon  rallying  her  from  this  depression  into 
which  she  has  fallen.  The  terrible  tragedy  through  which 
she  has  passed,  pardon  me  for  mentioning  it,  has  under- 
mined her  very  vitality,  it  would  seem.  If  Dora  knew  that 
there  was  to  be  something  in  life  for  her ;  if  she  knew  that 
she  was  to  belong  to  the  man  she  loves,  has  always  loved, 
yes,  I  repeat  it,"  as  Mrs.  Allene  looked  up  quickly,  "has 
always  loved,  she  might  rally.  Oh,  dear  Mrs.  Allene, 
think  of  your  own  life,  your  girlhood — do  not  harden 
your  heart — I  Tcnoiu  that  life  without  love  is  barren, 
wretched,  fruitless.  I  think,  indeed  I  almost  know,  that 
Dora's  very  life  depends  upon  this  matter." 

Mrs.  Aliene  held  up  her  hand  warningly.  "'Do  not  say 
any  more,  I  beg  of  you,  Helen.  It  is  utter  nonsense. 
Never,  never,  under  any  consideration  will  I  consent  to 
Pora's  union  with  that  person.     If  she  marries  him,  it 


Mamma  Allene  Relents.  '129 

will  be  without  either  her  father's  consent  or  mine,  and  I 
think  you  are  a  woman  of  too  much  honor  to  abet  her  in 
any  such  proceeding.  Dora,  of  course,  is  not  well ;  the 
terrible  shock  she  has  undergone,"  Mrs.  Allene's  voice 
lowered  a  trifle,  "has  of  course  affected  her  nerves.  She 
shall  have  everything  a  mother's  love  can  provide,  you 
know  that." 

"Except  the  one  thing  that  will  make  her  truly  happy," 
thought  Mrs.  Barnes,  but  she  said  nothing,  and  Mrs.  Al- 
lene continued.  "She  has  quite  forgotten  that  foolish 
little  affair  of  some  months  ago;  she  never  mentions  the 
person's  name  at  all,  and  I  am  exceedingly  sorry  that  you 
mentioned  his  name  to-day.  She  is  not  well,  and  any- 
thing— any  little  thing  upsets  her;  but  she  has  quite 
banished  all  thoughts  of  the  person  you  mention,  out  of 
her  mind,  let  me  assure  you  of  that.  I  want  you  to  come 
to  see  Dora.  She  is  fond  of  you,  and  your  presence  will 
cheer  her,  but  I  must  request  you  not  to  speak  of  that 
matter,  and  to  discourage  any  mention  of  the  forbidden 
subject,  in  Dora." 

Mrs.  Barnes  laid  her  hand  upon  Mrs.  Allene's  arm.  "I 
might  find  sufBcient  cause  in  the  way  in  which  you  have 
spoken  for  being  angry,  and  for  not  troubling  you  again 
Vv'ith  my  presence.  But  I  love  Dora  dearly,  and  I  feel  that 
I  must  come  to  see  her.  Of  course  I  shall  not  venture  upon 
any  subject,  in  my  intercourse  with  her,  that  you  desire 
avoided  between  us,  although  I  feel  that  I  am  doing  Dora 
an  injury  in  so  promising.  However,  such  is  your  desire, 
and  you  may  rely  upon  my  honor.  But  let  me  say  solemnW, 
Mrs.  Allene,  that  I  think  you  are  doing  your  own  child 
an  irreparable  wrong.  It  is  at  least  worth  the  trying,  to 
send  for  this  gentleman,  the  man  she  loves,  and  see  what 
help  his  presence  may  be.  Perhaps  the  girl's  very  life  de- 
pends upon  it."  Then  she  added  lightly,  with  her  usual 
conventional  society  tone,  "Well,  good-bye,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Allene.  I  shall  call  again  soon.  Come  and  see  me,  when 
you  can." 

Mrs.  Allene's  tone  was  as  light  as  her  own.  "Thank 
you ;  I  shall  wait  a  day  or  two  until  Dora  is  stronger,  and 
we'll  call  together."    She  looked  after  the  beautiful  v/oman, 


130  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

who  walked  avray  smiling,  gracious,  graceful,  then  her 
hands  clinched  with  her  pride. 

It  was  all  ver}^  well  for  Mrs.  Allene  to  flatter  herself 
that  Dora  would  be  about  in  a  day  or  two,  but  when  day 
after  day  passed  by,  and  the  girl  seemed  to  grow  weaker 
and  more  listless,  until  she  wished  to  do  nothing  but  lie 
upon  a  couch  all  da}',  sometimes  dozing,  sometimes  looking 
about  with  large,  pathetic  eyes,  in  a  way  that  went  to  her 
mother's  heart,  her  hopes  began  to  waver. 

Mrs.  Barnes  had  taken  her  driving  several  times,  but 
the  last  time  she  had  fainted  twice  after  they  brought  her 
into  the  house,  and  the  doctor  forbade  her  going  again 
until  she  grew  stronger.  "Grew  stronger" — Mrs.  Allene's 
heart  became  sick  within  her.  If  she  should  never  grow 
stronger — this  girl  who  had  been  her  hope  and  pride,  of 
whom  she  had  expected  so  much,  whose  youth  and  beauty 
had  been  her  daily  delight,  for  whom  she  had  planned  such 
brilliant  prospects !  One  by  one  she  had  seen  those  hopes 
dashed  to  the  ground,  and  now — if  anything  should  happen 
to  the  girl — 0  God !  spare  her  that !  It  would  be  more 
than  she  could  bear.  And  yet  she  closed  her  heart  to  what 
Mrs.  Barnes  had  said.  Dora  was  a  girl  of  too  much  com- 
mon sense  to  pine  away  for  a  man  like  that.  ISTo,  no !  She 
v/ould  grow  stronger  soon.  It  was  only  a  little  temporary 
weakness — nothing  that  would  last.  The  doctor  had  said 
she  was  in  a  critical  condition,  but  then  doctors  didn't 
always  know.  They  very  often  made  mistakes.  They  were 
only  human  like  the  rest  of  mankind.  So  she  fought  with 
herself  and  her  stubborn  pride  day  after  day.  But  one 
da}'',  after  Dora  had  passed  an  unusually  restless,  miserable 
day,  she  gi'e\v  thoroughly  frightened,  and  calling  the  maid 
they  had  brought  v;ith  them,  to  sit  with  Dora,  she  put 
on  her  bonnet  and  hurried  to  the  doctor's.  She  could  talk 
with  him  better  at  his  office  than  at  the  hotel.  Poor 
woman !  She  had  lived  so  much  upon  the  surface,  so  much 
for  show,  she  was  so  used  to  hiding  her  feelings  and  putting 
her  best  foot  forward,  that  she  tried  even  now  to  move  in 
a  dignified  way  along  St.  Charles  Street  as  though  out  for 
an  airing,  although  she  felt  like  running  and  screaming 
through  the  streets  like  a  madwoman. 


Mamma  Allene  Relents.  131 

If  it  should  bo  that  her  child  should  be  taken  from  her — 
the  child  of  her  hope  and  pride !  If  it  should  be  that 
this  was  to  be  the  end  of  all  her  planning  for  that  child's 
future !  If  there  vrere  to  be  no  future  for  which  to  plan ! 
If  she  were  to  be  left  childless !  Of  course  there  was  her 
son — but  this  mother's  heart  had  centered  more  around 
her  daughter  than  her  son.  Young  Edward  was  too  selfish 
to  give  much  heed  to  anj'one  but  himself — too  lazy  and 
dissipated  to  do  much  but  lounge  about  and  spend  his 
father's  money.  She  had  never  had  any  fears  that  he  would 
marry  heneai/i  him.  He  was  too  fond  of  money  and  his 
own  ease  to  fall  in  love  with  a  girl  for  the  girl's  sake  alone. 
But  Dora — with  her  warm,  soft,  impressionable  nature, 
which  she  (her  mother)  admired  in  a  reluctant  sort  of  way, 
although  she  neither  understood  it  nor  was  in  sympathy 
with  it — Dora  was  different.  She  had  felt  more  or  less 
anxious  about  her,  until  she  had  secured  her  engagement 
to  Lord  Carnleigh.  How  much  delight  she  had  always 
taken  in  her !  A  delight  in  her  beauty,  a  pride  in  her 
popularity.  "What  a  pleasure  it  had  been  to  arrange  for  her 
debut.  Tt,^  give  parties  for  her,  to  chaperon  her  from 
place  to  place !  ISTothing  suited  Mrs.  Allene's  restless, 
ambitious  nature  but  a  continuous  whirl  of  pleasure  aud 
gaycty.  She  had  lived  over  in  her  daughter's  social  life 
what  she  had  missed  in  her  ov.m  young  ladyhood — when  she 
had  been  compelled  to  work  for  a  living,  instead  of  being 
able  to  take  a  position  to  which  her  beauty,  at  least,  en- 
titled her.  She  had  taken  more  pleasure  in  Dora's  con- 
quests than  the  girl  had  herself. 

When  Lord  Carnleigh  had  been  secured,  her  wildest 
dreams  had  been  realized.  His  death  was  a  severe  blow, 
but  she  had  rallied.  To  her  mind  cam_e  delicately,  not 
quite  in  so  coarse  a  way  perhaps,  but  nevertheless  it  came, 
the  thought  set  forth  by  the  old  proverb,  about  there 
being  just  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  were  caught,  and 
she  set  about  to  secure  the  fish. 

But  novr — if  the  girl  should  die!  She  could  never  bear 
that.  To  her  anxious  heart  came  the  question  again  and 
again,  as  to  the  Shunammite  woman  of  old:  "Is  it  well 


132  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

with  the  child?"  and  she  had  answered^   (it  must  be,  it 
skoiild  be  so)  ''It  is  welL" 

Doctor  Marbury  lived  on  King  Street,  in  a  large,  pleas- 
ant house  surrounded  by  a  tropical  garden.  The  doctor 
looked  cool  and  comfortable  in  his  white  linen  suit,  and 
greeted  her  pleasantly  as  he  brought  a  chair  and  fan.  She 
sat  panting  and  out  of  breath  for  some  moments,  more 
fiom  nervous  excitement  than  from  the  fatigue  of  the 
walk. 

"How  is  my  little  patient  to-day  ?  I  intended  calling  this 
afternoon.     Not  worse,  I  trust,  by  your  coming  to  see  me  ?" 

She  looked  him  full  in  the  face.  "Doctor,  are  you  de- 
ceiving me?    Is  my  child  going  to  recover?" 

"Why,  my  dear  Mrs.  Allene — I " 

She  grew  very  excited.  "There !  Don't  tell  me  a  false- 
hood. You  do  know,  you  must  know.  You  doctors  will 
never  tell  anything,  until  the  last  moment.  If  you  are 
not  certain  about  the  case,  I  shall  have  a  consultation  of 
physicians.     I  tell  you  she  must  not  die,  she  shall  not  die." 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Allene,  you  are  excited.  You  do  not 
know  what  you  are  saying,"  interrupted  the  doctor  gravely. 
"Life  and  death  arc  in  the  hands  of  God.  "We  may  do 
what  we  can  for  our  loved  ones,  but  Death  must  come  to 
all.  I  have  watched  and  tended  your  daughter  as  faith- 
fully as  possible.  I  wished  to  wait  a  day  or  two  to  try  the 
effect  of  the  change  of  treatment  I  prescribed  for  her,  and 
if  that  did  not  act  upon  her  as  I  hoped  it  would,  I  in- 
tended stating  my  opinion  to  you,  and  advising  a  con- 
sultation of  physicians.  I  did  not  wish  to  give  you  need- 
less pain  and  worry.     There  may  be  liope " 

''May  he  hope r  she  cvied.  "What  do  you  mean  ?  Why 
are  you  talking  so  ?  You  cannot  think  there  is  any  imme- 
diate danger?" 

He  pitied  her.  Perhaps  he  saw  so  much  pain  and 
sorrow  that  he  had  grown  a  trifle  callous,  but  he  pitied  her, 
indeed. 

"I  am  sorry,  my  dear  madam,  to  give  you  pain.  I  said 
once  I  feared  the  girl  was  in  a  critical  condition,  but  I 
knew  that  you  did  not  believe  me,  that  you  have  had  no 
fears  since.     Still,  as  I  said  before,  there  may  be  hope.'\ 


Mamma  Allene  Relents.  133 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  with  a  heart  like  lead. 

"You  will  oblige  me  by  calling  a  consultation  at  once. 
Nothing  that  can  be  done  must  be  left  undone.  I  must 
go  back  to  my  child." 

She  went  along  the  narrow  streets  like  one  in  a  trance, 
and  somehow,  she  knew  not  just  how,  she  reached  the 
hotel. 

She  went  straight  to  Dora.  The  girl  had  fallen  asleep 
again.    It  gave  her  mother  pain  merely  to  look  at  her. 

"She's  been  very  bright,  ma'am,"  the  maid  answered 
in  reply  to  her  anxious  question.  "Mrs.  Barnes  was  here, 
an'  Mis'  Dora  seemed  pleased  just  to  look  at  her.  Mrs. 
Barnes  left  a  note  for  you,  ma'am,"  handing  it  to  her. 
Mrs.  Allene  tore  it  open. 

"I  would  like  so  much  to  see  you,"  it  said.  "My  dear 
Mrs.  Allene,  you  must  think  of  what  I  said  to  you.  It 
may  be  the  best  thing  for  all  of  you  in  the  end.  It  is  at 
least  worth  trying." 

She  crushed  the  bit  of  paper  in  her  hand.  They  were 
all  in  league  against  her.  What  absurdity !  As  though 
sending  for  that  boy  would  be  of  any  help  to  Dora !  She 
went  to  the  couch  and  put  her  hand  upon  the  girl's 
forehead  to  feel  its  temperature.  The  light  touch  awak- 
ened her.  She  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  up  at  her  mother 
in  a  startled  way  at  first,  then  put  out  her  hand  and  made 
a  gentle  efTort  to  draw  her  down  beside  her. 

"Dear  mamma,"  she  murmured  like  a  little  child,  "I've 
tried  to  be  a  good  girl  always,  haven't  I?" 

Her  mother  sat  down  beside  her  and  patted  her  hand 
softly.    Her  heart  was  sick  within  her. 

"Is  there  anything  you  want,  darling?"  she  asked 
anxiously,  without  answering  Dora's  question. 

"jSTo,  no,"  the  girl  said  softly.  "I  have  everything  I 
could  possibly  wish  for.    You  are  very  good  to  me." 

"But  I  mean" — her  mother  persisted,  "anything  that 
would  make  you  happy — anything  you  would  very  much 
desire — anything,  Dora  ?" 

If  she  had  only  said  what  was  on  her  lip  to  say !  If  the 
girl  had  only  understood  her ! 


134  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

"jSTo,  no,"  she  murmured  again,  her  eyelids  falling 
sleepily.     "I  am  very  happy — you  are  very  kind." 

Mrs.  Allene  sat  still  for  some  moments.  Dora  was 
drowsy.  It  was  better  for  her  to  sleep  perhaps,  at  least 
she  would  not  disturb  her  until  she  knew  to  the  contrary. 
She  rose  quietly,  drew  the  afglian  over  her  shoulders, 
kissed  her  gently  and  went  out  upon  the  veranda.  She 
felt  terribly  depressed  as  though  she  could  not  get  a 
breath  of  fresh  air.  She  drew  a  chair  and  sat  down  lean- 
ing her  arm  upon  the  railing  and  looking  down  into  a  sort 
of  court  below. 

The  light  warm  rain  that  began  to  fall  did  not  drive 
her  in,  any  more  than  it  did  the  mocking-bird  upon  the 
eaves,  that  began  to  sing  as  though  to  outrival  Mciody's 
very  self.  The  mid-winter  garden  revived  glowingly  under 
the  sudden  bath,  becoming  anew  a  delight  to  the  eye,  as  it 
was  at  all  times  to  the  Northern  visitor,  with  its  stately 
magnolias,  broad  leaved  plantains,  sour  orange  trees  bright 
with  golden  fruit,  and  one  or  two  stately  palmettos.  A 
dignified  crane  stalked  in  and  out  among  the  flowers  like 
some  old  philosopher  out  for  a  season  of  communion  with 
nature.  The  woman  who  looked  down  into  the  garden 
saw  nothing  of  all  this.  Her  tlioughts  were  busy  with  her- 
self. She  was  wrestling  with  her  pride.  If  the  girl  had 
really  wanted  to  see  that  hoij,  she  would  have  told  her. 
She  said  she  was  happy.  Why  should  she  say  that  if 
there  were  an5'thing  that  worried  her?  Still  ]\rrs.  AUcne 
did  not  feel  satisfied.  Dora  must  have  talked  with  Helen 
• — Mrs.  Barnes  seemed  so  sure  that  it  would — How  absurd ! 
Dora  had  forgotten  all  about  him.  And  yet — Dora  must 
have  talked  with  Helen.  A  jealous  pang  came  at  the 
thought  that  Dora  had  confided  in  Helen  instead  of  her, 
her  own  mother.  Still  she  could  not  blame  her.  She  had 
never  encouarged  her  to  talk  upon  the  subject;  in  fact, 
had  forbidden  the  mention  of  it.  She  vv'ould  not  have 
listened — until  now — she  might  now.  Her  heart  sickened 
at  the  thought.  It  was  hard  for  this  woman  to  conquer 
her  pride,  to  put  aside  her  hopes  and  ambitions.  She  had 
been  an  intensely  selfish  woman.  How  hard — how  almost 
impossible  it  was,  to  set  self  wholly  aside  now!    She  put 


Mamma  Allene  Relents.  135 

out  her  white  hand  and  caught  it  full  of  raindrops,  press- 
ing her  wet  palm  upon  her  heated  forehead.  But  the  girl 
— something  must  he  done  for  her.  She  would  wait  until 
the  doctor  came — until  he  held  a  consultation  with  the 
others.  She  would  ask  him  what  he  thought  about  it.  She 
would  leave  no  stone  unturned  that  would  aid  the  girl's 
restoration  to  health.  Dora  must  get  well,  at  whatever  cost. 
She  rose  from  her  chair.  If  it  came  to  a  sacrifice  of  her 
hopes,  she  would  make  that  sacrifice.  For  the  moment  a 
gush  of  unselfish  mother  love  came  over  her — the  sort  of 
feeling  that  had  been  hers  long  ago,  before  her  heart  had 
grown  so  hard  and  selfish — when  the  girl  lay  a  helpless 
baby  in  her  arms.  Her  heart  went  out  to  her  child  as  it 
had  in  her  baby  days. 

She  went  into  the  room.  "Dora,  dear,"  she  said  going 
to  the  couch. 

Oh,  mother,  after  all  your  strivings  for  position,  for  a 
name  and  place  in  society,  after  all  your  lofty  aspirations ! 
Look  here ! 

Oh,  father,  puffed  up  in  your  own  pride  and  self-gratu- 
lation,  with  your  heart  hardened  with  money-getting,  is 
it  worth  it  all  ?    Look  here  ! 

The  girl  lay  sleeping  upon  the  couch,  in  her  white  wool 
gown,  with  one  blue-veined  hand  lying  upon  the  bright 
colored  afghan,  the  other  resting  under  the  soft  cheek — 
a  fair,  frail  creature,  only  the  shadow  of  the  bright, 
dimpled,  fascinating  beauty  who  had  carried  all  Chicago 
by  storm  a  few  months  before. 

A  realization  of  the  change  in  her  daughter  came  over 
Mrs.  Allene,  and  she  sank  into  a  chair,  overcome  by  the 
sight  of  the  girPs  white  face,  and  by  the  agitation  of  the 
past  hour,  bursting  into  bitter  tears — tears,  however,  that 
went  far  toward  softening  her  obdurate  heart. 


136  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


A   GAY   PARTY    OF   POUR. 


"There's  naught  this  mere  earth  containeth,  half  so  dear  as 
this  woman  to  me." 

Several  days  after  Mrs.  Allene's  visit  to  Doctor  Mar- 
bury,  a  young  man  stood  on  the  wharf  at  Jacksonville, 
looking  anxiously  out  over  the  water,  through  a  pair  of 
large  field  glasses.  He  wore  a  gray  tweed  suit  and  travel- 
ing cap,  and  by  his  side  upon  the  wharf  were  a  leather 
satchel  and  tightly  rolled  umbrella,  which  might  have  been 
carried  away  from  under  his  very  nose,  so  little  heed  did 
he  give  them  in  his  anxious  search  of  the  river.  The  large 
boat,  filled  with  passengers,  had  steamed  away,  and  still 
he  stood  in  just  the  same  place,  with  the  field  glasses  at  his 
eyes.  Presently  he  lowered  his  glasses,  strapped  them  in  a 
case  flung  across  his  shoulder  and,  jerking  his  handker- 
chief from  his  pocket,  proceeded  to  wave  it  vigorously,  as 
a  small  naphtha  launch  came  towards  him,  containing  a 
lady  and  gentleman,  who  were  waving  their  handkerchiefs 
energetically  in  return — the  lady  graceful  and  fair,  in  a 
suit  of  white  flannel,  with  a  yachting  cap  set  jauntily  upon 
her  shapely  head,  the  gentleman  looking  scarcely  less  cool 
and  pleasing  to  the  eye,  in  a  silk  shirt,  sash,  white  flannel 
trousers,  and  another  white  yachting  cap  shading  a  pair  of 
very  pleasant,  expressive  eyes. 

"There  he  is,  Courtney,"  said  Helen  Barnes  excitedly, 
for  she  it  was.  "I  knew  my  letter  would  bring  him.  Oh, 
1  can  hardly  wait  until  we  reach  the  wharf — and  a  little 


A  Gay  Party  of  Four.  137 

later,  as  they  touched  it,  "I  am  so  glad  to  see  you.  Will," 
as  Will  Porter  leaned  over  and  shook  hands  with  her  and 
with  Courtney. 

"Not  a  bit  more  pleased  than  I  am  to  see  you  both," 
said  the  young  man,  heartily.  ''Is  this  'The  Helen'?" 
pointing  to  the  boat. 

"Indeed  it  is  not,  sir,"  answered  Courtney,  with  a  show 
of  indignation.  "  'The  Helen'  is  a  beauty — wait  until  you 
see  her.  We  hired  this  little  boat  to  have  a  few  days' 
cruise  of  the  St.  John's.  'The  Helen'  lies  up  in  the  bay. 
Wait  until  I  give  you  a  ride  upon  her,  and  then  dare  to 
compare  her  with  anything  you  have  ever  seen  in  the  way 
of  a  boat,  at  your  peril,  sir.  This  is  a  pretty  good  boat 
though,"  he  added  condescendingly,  as  he  started  across 
the  river,  while  Helen  stood  at  the  wheel. 

"Courtney  was  always  a  peaceable  creature,  until  the 
days  of  'The  Helen,' "  laughed  his  wife.  "Now  he  wants 
to  race  with  every  boat  on  the  bay,  and  spends  his  time 
and  energy  in  heated  discussions,  as  to  the  superior  merits 
of  'The  Helen'  over  any  other  craft  ever  constructed." 

"Bearing  the  name  slie  does,  I  am  not  surprised  that 
she  outstrips  all  competitors,"  said  Will  gallantly. 

Mrs.  Barnes  tipped  her  yachting  cap  gaily. 

"I  am  your  debtor  for  that  pretty  compliment." 

"You  can  never  be  my  debtor,  after  your  kind  note, 
Mrs.  Barnes,"  answered  Will,  his  voice  changing  from 
jesting  to  a  very  earnest,  almost  trembling  tone. 

"Here  is  Courtney  to  take  the  wheel,"  said  Helen,  eagerly 
jumping  down  from  her  post  and  sitting  down  beside 
Will.  "I  know  you  are  anxious  to  hear  all  I  have  to  tell. 
Dora  has  been,  as  I  wrote  you,  very  ill,  and  I  felt  if 
something  were  not  done  at  once,  that  the  girl  would  not 
live  long.  The  doctor  does  not  seem  able  to  do  her  any 
good ;  does  not  seem  to  understand  her  case,  and  the  other 
day,  when  I  called  upon  her  mother,  I  found  Mrs.  Allene 
completely  broken  down.  I  talked  to  her  very  plainly,  and 
told  her  just  what  I  thought,  and  finally  informed  her 
that  I  was  going  to  send  for  you  immediately,  and  just 
think — she  told  me  I  could  do  so." 

"As  a  last  resort,"  said  Will,  a  trifle  bitterly.     "How- 


138  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

ever/'  he  added  quickly,  with  a  suspicious  huskiness  in 
his  voice,  "I  am  almost  ready  to  thank  God  for  it  all,  if 
it  only  brings  me  a  sight  of  Dora  again." 

"A  sight  of  her !  What  a  down-hearted  gallant !  Why 
she  is  going  to  grow  well  and  strong  again  at  the  very  sight 
of  you,  and  we  shall  hear  wedding  bells  very  soon,  so 
prophesies  Helen  of  Chicago." 

Will's  face  flushed.  "I  trust  your  prophecies  may  be 
fulfilled,"  he  answered,  looking  gloomily  incredulous,  how- 
ever. He  had  come  to  believe  so  firmly  that  Dora  could 
never  be  anything  to  him,  that  any  other  view  of  the  situ- 
ation seemed  too  good  to  be  true.  He  said  very  little  more 
about  Dora,  although  Mrs.  Barnes  talked  on  earnestly  for 
awhile.  Presently  she  said  with  a  laugh,  "Now  I  shall 
not  tell  you  any  more — the  rest  you  must  find  out  for 
yourself.  Turn  about  is  fair  play,  so  you  must  give  me  a 
little  Chicago  news.  Does  the  elite  world  quite  survive 
my  absence,  or  does  it  begin  to  droop  and  look  gloomy? 
And  who  is  getting  married  or  becoming  affianced ;  in  fact, 
what  is  the  latest  morsel  of  gossip?" 

Will  laughed.  "The  latest  morsel  is  quite  amusing. 
Tony  Foyer  has  eloped  with  the  little  Trenton,  of  ballet 
fame.  That  is,  eloped  as  far  as  Milwaukee,  where  Tony 
found  a  prettier  girl,  and  induced  her  to  elope  back  to 
Chicago  with  him." 

Mrs.  Barnes  made  a  grimace.  "What  fools  these  mor- 
tals be !  and  especially  Tony.    Is  all  your  news  as  racy  ?" 

"ISTo,  rather  tamer.  Maud  Prunell  is  to  marry  young  Do 
Smythe." 

"Hooked  him  at  last,  did  she?"  called  out  Courtney, 
who  had  caught  the  last  sentence.  "What  a  satisfaction 
that  must  have  been  to  Mamma  Prunell,  after  her  weary 
months  of  angling.  I  wish  her  joy  of  the  catch,  for  I  think 
there's  a  pair  of  them." 

"You  have  taken  on  quite  a  tan,  my  boy,"  said  Will,  as 
Courtney's  handsome  dark  face  was  turned  toAvards  them. 

^'Wait  until  you've  had  a  trip  or  two  on  ^The  Helen,' 
and  I'll  wager  to  take  off  some  of  your  pallor,  and  put 
a  little  bloom  of  youth  upon  your  cheek,"  answered  Court- 
ney.   "Well,  here  we  are,  barely  in  time  for  the  train  too, 


A  Gay  Party  of  Four.  139 

by  Jove;  and  here's  Thomas  for  his  boat,"  as  a  brown 
Minorcan  came  down  to  the  pier.  "She's  a  dandy,  Thomas 
— travels  along  in  great  shape." 

"But  she  isn't  'The  Helen,'  eh?"  said  Mrs.  Barnes, 
laughing  archly  up  into  his  face  as  he  helped  her  out  oi 
the  boat. 

"There  is  only  one  Helen"  he  said  in  a  low  tone,  press- 
ing her  hand  gently,  and  she  blushed  like  a  girl  at  her 
husband's  look  and  tone. 

It  was  aoout  seven  o'clock  that  evening  that  Will  Porter 
wended  his  way  to  the  Magnolia  House.  He  was  very 
carefully  dressed,  and  wore  a  boutonniere  in  his  dress  coat, 
presenting  a  jaunty  exterior,  in  marked  contrast  to  the 
nervousness  within,  as  he  sat  in  the  hotel  parlors  after 
sending  up  his  card.  Some  moments  after  his  arrival 
Mrs.  Allene  rustled  in,  looking  very  handsome  and  well 
preserved,  in  a  black  lace  gown  trimmed  with  lavender 
ribbons.  Whatever  may  have  been  her  feeling  towards 
young  Will,  she  greeted  him  as  though  he  were  the  one 
person  in  all  the  world  she  most  desired  to  see.  If  ]\Irs. 
Allene  had  been  compelled  to  surrender,  she  at  least  knew 
how  to  make  her  defeat  appear  like  a  prearranged  plan 
of  her  own.  She  asked  graciously  after  his  parents  and 
sisters,  told  him  how  well  he  was  looking,  as  indeed  she 
was  right,  for  as  far  as  appearances,  at  least,  were  con- 
cerned she  could  have  asked  for  no  more  desirable  suitor 
for  her  daughters  hand  than  the  young  man  before  her, 
with  his  beardless,  clear-cut  face,  and  frank,  honest  eyes. 

"I  thought  it  best  that  Dora  should  not  see  you  until 
to-morrow,"  she  said  after  a  little  preliminary  conversa- 
tion. Will's  face  darkened,  but  brightened  immediately 
as  she  continued,  "But  she  has  been  ill  and  we  must  in- 
dulge her  fancies,  you  know,  Mr.  Porter,  and  she  really  in- 
sisted on  seeing  you,  so  if  you  will  come  with  me  to  our 
private  parlor,  we  shall  find  her  there." 

Will  followed  her  to  the  elevator  with  alacrity,  although 
his  heart  was  beating  wildly  at  every  step. 

"Dora,"  said  Mrs.  Allene,  opening  the  door  of  their 
private  apartment,  *^iere  is  Mr.  Porter." 


I40  A  Girl  of  Chicago. 

She  was  seated  in  a  large  armchair,  looking  frail  and 
white,  but  very  lovely  and  fair  to  the  young  man  who 
came  forward  eagerly  and  took  her  hand  in  his. 

The  blood  rushed  into  her  face,  but  she  said  quietly, 
"I  am  glad  to  see  you.  Will." 

After  this  he  saw  her  every  day,  and  every  day  she  grew 
stronger  and  more  like  her  former  bright  self.  Doctor 
Marbury  laughingly  told  Will  he  certainly  ought  to  join 
the  medical  profession,  as  he  was  able  to  effect  so  complete 
a  cure  in  so  short  a  time.  No  longer  could  people  call 
her  that  "peculiar  Miss  Allene,"  for  instead  of  a  lacka- 
daisical quiet  girl,  there  reigned  in  her  stead  a  bright, 
happy  young  lady  who  spent  all  day  out  of  doors. 

"The  Helen"  made  many  a  trip  around  the  bay,  with  a 
gay  party  of  four,  and  Vv^ill  had  to  be  shown  all  the  points 
of  interest  aroimd  St.  Augustine.  I  doubt,  however,  that 
he  saw  much  but  one  lovely  face,  that  looked  so  blushingly 
sweet  whenever  he  looked  into  it,  which  he  did  very  often, 
you  may  be  sure. 

One  day  "The  Helen"  took  a  trip  to  North  Beach,  and 
somehow  when  they  landed,  Courtney  and  his  wife  felt 
as  though  their  presence  was  not  needed  by  the  other  two, 
and  so  strolled  away  out  of  sight.  Dora  sat  down  upon 
the  beach  and  spread  her  white  parasol,  whose  pink  lining 
lent  a  soft  glow  to  her  flower-like  face.  Will  stretched 
himself  at  her  feet,  and  took  her  hand  in  his. 

"Dora,"  he  said  presently,  "does  all  this  mean  that  yoil 
are  to  be  my  wife?" 

"That  depends  upon  whether  you  want  me  or  not,"  she 
answered,  looking  at  him  from  under  her  lashes,  but  her 
eyes  dropped  and  her  cheek  reddened  beneath  his  gaze. 

There  are  no  words  to  express  the  young  man's  answer. 


THE 

END. 


